


sometimes you amaze me

by burstofpeony



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Draco's her campaign manager, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hermione's running for minister of magic, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Political Campaigns, Slow Burn, but the polls don't like her, it's messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:56:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 54,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28581618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burstofpeony/pseuds/burstofpeony
Summary: “What? What are you talking about?”Draco sighs, shaking his head. “I’m saying that if you want to win this campaign, you have to be in a relationship.”“Well, I’m not in a relationship,” Hermione snaps. “This entire discussion is wasting time, okay? We just have to find another angle. Maybe focusing on my political record--”“I have someone. Someone who’s willing to help you out.”Hermione pauses. Even Ginny’s gaze snaps up from her phone.“Say that again?”“Pansy Parkinson. From school. She’s been living in Paris for the past couple years, doing charity work and dabbling in local politics. She’s willing to pose as your very serious girlfriend until the end of the campaign.” Draco waves his hand around. “For something in return, of course.”“No-- absolutely not!” Hermione says sharply. “We can’t do that!”Draco cocks his head. “Can’t we, though?”---Hermione’s on track to become the youngest Minister of Magic in history. There’s just one issue-- the polls hate her. Well, the polls hate her gayness, specifically. When a solution is presented that could fix everything, who’s she to decline?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson, Ron Weasley/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 302





	1. Poll Results

“Where the  _ fuck _ are my poll results?” 

The office is loud. Hectic, confusing. The small rooms, connected by thin hallways, are full of people, yells, documents whirling around, spells hitting walls. 

It’s obvious what the offices are used for. Pencils and pens and even some wands are adorned with  _ Hermione Granger for Minister of Magic  _ stickers, even a banner strung up over the barely-used break room has Hermione’s smiling face on it. Phones are constantly ringing, doors are swinging open and shut, shouts and yells and orders following them.

There’s one door that is rarely open, though. A large, ornate, wooden door, warded to high heaven. This is Hermione Granger’s office, and the only people she allows immediate access to it are her campaign managers and close friends, but these people know not to bother her anyways, so it’s pointless.

Hermione’s hunched over her wooden desk, poring over stacks of papers and letters as if the outside world doesn’t exist, even as an owl pecks at her window. She doesn’t bother letting it in.

Her office is quiet enough, she has some basic silencing charms surrounding it, plus the door is so thick is muffles a lot of noise from outside, but even the strongest of charms and thickest of doors can’t keep out Draco Malfoy’s sharp, angry voice as it cuts through the office, inciting panic in even the steeliest of aides. Hermione expects him to do this as her campaign manager, and that’s why she doesn’t bat an eye when he starts yelling again.

“I repeat, where the  _ fuck _ are my poll results?”

Hermione ignores him. She has the poll results in front of her, the reactions from her newly printed interview in the Daily Prophet. She swiped it from her other campaign manager, Leah Khoutan, a Bangladeshi woman who’s been working with Hermione since she was in law school. Leah was on the phone, trying to organize a venue for an upcoming rally, and didn’t even notice as the documents floated out of her hand and slipped through the barely open door.

The results are grim, unfortunately.

Although the Daily Prophet interview is positive, glowing even, it seems that the more conservative members of the Wizarding Community aren’t excited about her campaign. More like they aren’t excited about  _ her _ , a gay, black, female Muggleborn.

Plus, she’s running against the whitest guy in the history of white guys, which just makes the differences between them even more severe.

She hears Draco shout again, a yelp from one of the volunteers following. Swearing to herself, she stands, opening the door with a flick of her wand. 

Noise hits her ears, noise that promptly disappears as she fully emerges from her office. 

Another flick of her wand has the poll results landing in Draco’s hands. 

“Thank you,” he mutters, delving into them without another glance at her.

Leah appears next to her, bun wobbling on her head. “Hermione--”

“The poll results are bad,” Hermione interrupts, biting her lip. “Really, really bad.”

Leah sighs, opening her phone. “I can get the Prophet to rescind the article?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s a fine article, it’s just…” She trails off, lets her silence speak for itself.

Leah huffs out a sigh. “How long until Draco--”

“What the  _ fuck _ is  _ this _ ?” Draco screeches, throwing the papers into the chest of an intern. “Fucking racist, sexist  _ bigots-- _ ”

“Draco.”

He falls silent at Hermione’s sharpness, face pink with rage. 

“Take a walk,” she orders. Without another word, she turns and walks back into her office. Leah barely manages to get in safely as the heavy door swings shut, the hustle and bustle of the outside offices resuming at Hermione’s departure.

“What do we do?” Hermione asks, finally letting the owl in. The thing coos at her, dropping a letter at her feet. Fishing around in her pockets, she finds a treat, tossing it to the bird, and turns around without another thought.

Leah’s typing furiously, scowling at something on her phone. “I think at this point it’s just trying to strengthen our base, win over undecided voters. These people are so entrenched in their views it’s nearly impossible to convince them that someone like you could actually be fit to lead.” She finishes typing, stowing her phone in her pocket and looking up to meet Hermione’s heavy gaze. “Sorry, that’s insensitive. Right?”

Hermione waves her off, scanning the letter the owl dropped off. “Ginny’s coming by. Like, right now. She’s bringing Eloise.”

Leah seems to suppress a groan. “Do I have to babysit Eloise? I feel like my talents would be more appreciated elsewhere--”

“You do what I ask you, and if I ask you to babysit Ginny’s daughter, you’ll babysit Ginny’s daughter,” Hermione says firmly. “Go find Draco. Decide what our next steps are.”

Leah walks out quickly, a pinched frown on her face. Hermione follows, beelining for Astoria Greengrass, her personal assistant. “Astoria. What do I have today?”

Astoria, without even looking up from her computer, tosses a magazine at Hermione. “Interview with Quibbler at 1pm, photo-op with Hogwarts students at 2, meeting with Headmistress McGonagall at 2:30. Quick break, then a meet and greet plus dinner with donors at 4:30. That’s expected to last at least until 8, so buckle up.”

Hermione blows out a breath, inspecting the magazine now in her lap. “Yikes. And what’s this?”

Astoria smiles wryly. “ _ Daily Press News.  _ The number one conservative publishing in all of London. I heard about your poll problems, thought this was something to consider. Maybe you can reach out to some of the conservative base, try to sway them.”

Hermione blinks. “That’s actually a really good idea--  _ Leah! Draco!” _

Leah and Draco appear by her side, both looking slightly out of breath, and she tosses the magazine at them. They fight for it, briefly, until a sharp look from Hermione has Draco begrudgingly passing it to Leah, who starts flipping through it.

“Astoria suggested this.”

And with that, Hermione stands. 

She briefly meets with her head of communications and her head of fundraising, and right as she’s about to collapse in her office, she hears, “Madame Governor!”

Hermione sighs but turns, opening her arms for a hug right as Ginny Weasley breezes through the doorway so elegantly Hermione has a hard time believing she’s six months pregnant. “Hi, Gin.”

“Bad time?” Ginny asks as they part, raising an eyebrow. “You look stressed.”

Hermione waves a dismissive hand. “I’m always stressed,” she answers. “Where’s El?”

“Bothering your legislative advisor.”

“Ah. Well, I think it’s Draco’s turn to watch her today, so she’ll have a lot of fun with him.”

Ginny cackles. “Fucking Draco. That’s okay. Eloise adores him. Says he’s so pointy it’s funny.”

Hermione can’t help her grin. “Do you want to come into my office and sit? It’s chaotic here today.”

Ginny nods, latching onto Hermione’s arm as they navigate through the busy office. With a quick yell from Ginny, Eloise, newly turned four, sprints over to join them. They stop by Astoria’s desk, who fawns over Eloise and hands her a  _ Madame Minister  _ sticker, and then shut themselves in Hermione’s office. Ginny collapses into the chair Hermione specifically reserves for her, a plush velvet thing, and Hermione sweeps up Eloise, plopping her in her lap.

“How are you doing?” Hermione asks, laughing slightly as Eloise boops her nose.

Ginny groans. “Feel like shit. This pregnancy is kicking my ass.”

Hermione glances at Ginny with narrowed eyes, gaze sticking on her prominent baby bump and flushed face. “Not as easy as the first one?”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Ginny mutters. “I was such an idiot back then.”

Hermione can’t help her smirk, remembering Ginny’s brag about how ‘easy’ pregnancy was for her. It was a very short lived brag, obviously. 

Hermione bounces Eloise in her lap, who starts babbling about something or other.

“How are things going here? I read that article in the Prophet, you know. It’s very complimentary. Makes you sound relatable.”

Hermione sighs, hugging Eloise to her chest. “Not everyone thinks so.”

“Yikes.”

Hermione forces a smile. “Yeah. Yikes.”

A knock on the door cuts off any response Ginny might have had, as Draco peaks his head in, a characteristic scowl on his face. “You called me?”

Eloise shrieks, launching herself off of Hermione’s lap, sprinting across the floor and barreling into Draco’s legs. She starts yelling something unintelligible at him, dark skin flushing and red braids flying up and down. He simply sighs, picking her up and leaving Hermione’s office in one fluid movement.

“You’ve got him well-trained,” Ginny says with a grin.

“If only that were true. How’s Blaise?”

They talk for the next half hour, Leah occasionally sneaking in to get Hermione's signature on something or other and Draco sticking his head into her office with Eloise in tow and a pointed question about toys and food on his lips.

Only when Astoria starts knocking on the door, yelling that they’re going to be late for the Quibbler interview does Ginny stand.

“I should head out. I’m meeting Ron for lunch.”

“Send him my best, Gin.”

And in a flurry of movement and chatter and barked orders, Hermione steps through the office Floo, Leah and Draco at her back.

“The people who read the Quibbler aren’t looking for specifics. Hit your general policies hard, okay?  _ Hard _ ,” Draco informs her as they stride through Diagon Alley. His phone starts ringing, inciting a string of colorful swearing. “The Daily Press News is returning my call. Hold on.” He drops back.

Leah rushes up to take his place by Hermione’s side. “Luna’s questions are probably going to be abstract, unrelated to politics. Roll with it, slip in your policies whenever you can. But don’t overdo it.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “You act like I’ve never interviewed with Luna before.”

“Also,” Leah drops her voice. “Can I just mention what a stupid name ‘The Daily Press News’ is?”

“Jesus Christ, I thought you were never going to bring it up,” Hermione mutters. “You say ‘The Daily Press’ or ‘The Daily News’ but ‘The Daily Press News’? How juvenilely redundant.”

Leah snorts. “It’s like if my official title was campaign manager administrator.”

“Don’t give me ideas.”

“If I become campaign manager administrator, does that make me Draco’s boss?”

“Not if I change Draco’s title to campaign manager comptroller.”

\--

“And how do you plan to get rid of the Nargles around your head?” Luna asks in that ridiculously calming voice of hers.

Hermione laughs. “Hopefully once the campaign ends, the Nargles will leave.”

“Mm. I don’t know, would that guarantee it? I hear that being Minister of Magic is quite a difficult job.  _ Will _ the Nargles leave?”

Luna leans forward, like the answer to that simple question is the most sought after in all of Europe.

“Defeating a Dark Lord was easier than this campaign. And it’s not even close to over. The Nargles will leave, I assure you.”

Luna laughs, a bright, tinkling thing, and nods. “And I think that’ll be all. This interview will premiere in next week’s edition of the Quibbler,” Luna says, smiling. “Oh, by the way. I read your interview in the Daily Prophet. It’s very nice.”

Hermione holds in her sigh. “Thanks, Luna. How are things going here?”

She can feel Draco and Leah practically vibrating at her back, anxious to leave. She has to be over at Hogwarts in… she covertly checks her watch. Five minutes. She has to be arriving on Hogwarts grounds in five minutes. There’s no Floo in the Quibbler offices, so they’ll have to find a safe Apparition point and then walk the rest of the way by foot. They’ll most certainly be late, and no hushed whispers from Draco will stop that, so Hermione allows Luna to go on about things she doesn’t understand for another two minutes before standing.

“As always, it’s a pleasure.”

Luna nods. “Good luck with the campaign, Hermione. You have my vote.”

And before she knows it she’s being yanked away by Leah. “Merlin, McGonagall’s gonna fucking kill us if we’re late,” Draco hisses to her as they leave Luna’s large, open-aired office.

“Should we run?” Leah murmurs, surveying the Quibbler offices like it’s a maze. Which, Hermione supposes, it sort of is.

“No,” Hermione says firmly. “That’s a line I don’t cross.”

“We’re going to have to run,” Draco contradicts. “Merlin, where’s the fucking door?”

“ _ No _ ,” Hermione repeats, aghast.

“The only other choice we have is to blow through Luna’s anti- Apparition wards,” Leah counters, grip still tight on Hermione’s arm. “Jesus, you’re right, Draco. Where’s the goddamn door?”

“We’re going to be late anyway,” Draco mutters. “Might as well run.”

Hermione checks her watch, groaning. “Fucking fine, let’s run.”

Hermione’s never been more grateful that cameras are banned in the Quibbler offices ( _ no one wants to see pictures of our office! _ Luna had decreed) as they scramble through the confusing hallways and down the winding staircases. Employees peek at them through windows and dividers, but Hermione ignores it. She’s sure they’re quite a sight though, the three of them sprinting through the halls. Leah and Draco, both with a death grip on Hermione’s arm and hissing at each other, and Hermione, snapping at both of them.

“Door! Door!” Leah shrieks, attracting the attention of even more people. They blast through the pink painted, magically reinforced door, skidding in the gravel outside the building, and Hermione doesn’t wait any longer, hopped up on adrenaline, and roughly loops her arms through Draco’s and Leah’s, plunging into world warping, breath stealing Apparition.

Hermione lands in a muddy clearing, fog obscuring her surroundings, hitting the ground so hard her knees pop. She lets go of Leah and Draco, a mistake, she quickly realizes, when they’re spent spiraling into a huge patch of mud. 

“Mother _ fucker _ !” Draco yelps, blond hair drenched in mud.

Hermione doesn’t respond, instead checking her watch. They’re a minute late. She doesn’t have time to wait. Fuck it.

Hermione sweeps her braids behind her, smooths down her skirt, and strides towards a building in the distance, barely visible in the fog, kicking up dirt as she walks.

She tries to remember what Leah had breathlessly told her this morning as she ran into the office.  _ Red Lady is the password--  _ or was it yellow lady? 

No, it was Red Lady. Okay. Yeah.

She’s pretty sure.

She stops at the end of the dirt path, in front of a rundown shed, magic tingling over her, preventing her from going any farther. She knocks on the invisible barrier once,  _ red lady,  _ and the world unfolds around her. 

The dirt road underneath her feet shimmers, flipping into cobblestones with a slight groan. The ramshackle shed erupts into glittering light, blinding Hermione. She covers her eyes with a hiss, still not used to it, and when the light fades, the impressive train station sits in front of her, casting its large shadow. In the distance, the fog recedes, and Hogwarts finally appears, followed by the Great Lake, then the Forbidden Forest, until the entire countryside has laid out in front of her. Hermione’s wrist tingles and, when she looks down, she sees it tattooed with a bright red band. 

_ It’ll allow you to Apparate inside of Hogwarts,  _ Leah had said.

Hermione turns, sees Draco and Leah, still covered in mud, yelling at each other, and sighs. 

Guess she’s doing it alone.

She Apparates again, this time landing in the main courtyard.

She’s immediately beset upon.

“Ms. Granger! Ms. Granger!”

Kids press at her, some with those magical quills that record everything you say, including one older teenager that is scarily reminiscent of Colin Creevey with the camera hanging around his neck.

“One at a time!” A voice snaps.

Hermione turns, smiling when she sees Headmistress McGonagall.

“Headmistress,” she greets.

“You’re late, Governor Granger,” McGongall responds, eyes narrowed. 

“Deepest apologies.”

“And where is Mr. Malfoy and Ms. Khoutan? I was looking forward to seeing them.”

Hermione stifles a snort, thinking of them practically wrestling in the mud, instead schooling her face into an expression of careful neutrality. “Draco and Leah will hopefully join us momentarily. And  please, call me Hermione.”

McGonagall shakes her head, tutting. “No. You were elected to the Governor’s board, I will refer to you as Governor.”

Hermione nods, figuring that’s as good as she’ll get.

“Okay, students! A few rules. One at a time to ask Governor Granger a question! The Governor has to be aware of any and all pictures being taken. This is your opportunity to share your concerns, comments, and ask questions about what being a politician means. Nothing else.” McGonagall fixes the assembled crowd with a stern glare. “Okay. You may continue.”

She’s done a million of these. When she was running for the spot on the Governor’s board, she came to Hogwarts specifically for a Care of Magical Creatures class. It was one of the best campaign events they had held, catapulting her ahead in the polls, and she knew that Draco and Leah were banking on this to do the same for this campaign, too.

She shines in these types of events, where she can actually  _ talk _ to people. Later, she’ll have to sit through that donor’s dinner, which she’s already dreading, and she’ll chat with donors and shake a lot of hands and have to pretend to be sociable. But in these events, she just answers questions as honestly as possible and then gets a lot of good press.

“My mum says you rely too much on your status as an oppressed woman,” A small girl says, a shoddily transfigured microphone clutched in her hand.

“What does your mum think I should do instead?” Hermione replies, a smile growing on her face when she hears McGonagall’s  _ humph! _ behind her

The girl blinks. “She thinks you should stop relying on your status as an oppressed woman.”

“Okay, how about this-- you tell your mum to owl my office giving advice on what I should ‘rely’ on instead, then we can have a conversation.”

The girl shuffles away, followed by a sixth year who wants advice on becoming a lawyer. And then there’s a boy who shares with her that he thinks if she were white she’d be treated nicer, and another boy who says he really respects her foreign policy, and a girl who lets Hermione know that her political record is much better than her opponents’. 

Hermione takes a couple pictures, chats with a teary Hagrid, and almost twenty minutes go by before Draco and Leah appear, looking a little damp, staring daggers at her.

“We’re at a campaign event,” she murmurs through a smile. “You can’t murder me here.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t murder you when it’s over,” Leah replies, an equally fake smile on her face. “Oh my God! Look at this turnout!” She says in her grating, cheery campaign voice. Draco rolls his eyes.

“Hermione, McGonagall just went inside, so we’re going to give you five minutes and then get you in the building to have the meeting with her,” Draco whispers as he whips out his phone. She nods, nudging him away as two more kids sprint up to her.

“What is your advice for pursuing a career in politics, not as a candidate, but as a chief of staff or policy manager?” One of them almost shouts. 

Hermione grins, reaching over to yank at Draco and Leah, who stumble over without protest. “Well, I have two of my campaign managers right here for you. Do you want to talk to them?”

The kids nod eagerly.

“Well, kids… uh...” Leah starts, and Hermione quickly leaves.

Hermione takes a few more questions, poses for a picture with a fourth year who’s already taller than her, and is soon being shepherded into the building and up the winding staircases by Draco, Leah struggling to follow.

“How do you people navigate these fucking death traps?” She snaps right after Draco and Hermione have to lunge for her falling body when the stairs shift too quickly. 

“You get used to it,” Draco responds. “Did Durmstrang not have deathly staircases?”

“My parents  _ sent _ me to Durmstrang because they  _ didn’t _ .”

“Boring,” Hermione says, stony faced. “Death traps build character.”

And then they’re in front of McGonagall’s office.

\--

“The Governors Board has repeatedly tried to take away the majority of our funding,” McGonagall says, glasses balanced on the tip of her nose.

“I’ve voted against it every time,” Hermione responds.

“It was very nearly approved last time. How can you preserve our funding as the Minister of Magic?”

“As the Minister, I won’t introduce those bills in the first place. You know that the current Minister is the one hell bent on defunding the schools. That’s why the Governors Board has voted on it so many times in the first place.”

“So where do you find the money? Someone needs to provide the extra money for this failing economy. What other institution suffers so we don’t?” McGonagall presses, quill scribbling against her parchment.

“I cannot disclose that information,” Hermione says airily, mouthing  _ Aurors  _ a second later.

McGonagall nods.

“And I have a plan for the ‘failing economy’, as you’ve put it,” Hermione continues. “If you’ll give me a moment to find it…” She digs through her trusty, magically enlarged purse, and after a second of rustling around, finds her economy binder. “Here.” She offers the binder to McGonagall, who happily takes it.

“Also… I wanted to speak with you about something that is… technically not in existence yet,” Hermione says quietly, palms starting to sweat when McGonagall’s gaze snaps to hers.

“Not in existence yet?”

“Not in existence and won’t be for quite a while. Can I… can I hope for your discretion?”

McGonagall’s eyes narrow, but she nods. Once, slowly, suspiciously.

Hermione clears her throat, surreptitiously wiping her palms on her skirt. “After a year or so in office, I’m going to introduce a mandatory sex education bill.” McGonagall’s lips purse, sending Hermione’s heart pounding. “I know it will be controversial--”

“ _ Very _ controversial.” 

“That’s why I will need your support.”

“You’ll need the support of every administrator in all of Europe for even a chance of passing that bill,” McGonagall corrects sternly. “It’s ridiculously ambitious for a first term, Governor.”

“I don’t think it is. I think that if I have you and the heads of… say, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, at the very least, plus the Great Harry Potter on board, it’ll get some real traction.”

“So you need my endorsement for this campaign, and then support on a hypothetical bill that will most likely be so upsetting to the conservative wizarding population that my support will mean my name being dragged through the dust?”

Hermione barely manages to rein in her wince. “Yes.”

“And what do I get in return?”

Hermione’s eyes narrow. She leans forward, taking the economy binder back from McGonagall. “You get full funding.”

“So if I don’t support this bill, I can expect some money troubles?”

“I never said that.”

McGonagall sighs, lacing her hands together. 

Hermione awaits her response, knowing that threatening McGonagall is most definitely the biggest risk she’s ever taken, and that includes coming out of the closet right before her Governor’s campaign.

After a long minute, McGonagall meets Hermione’s eyes. With a wry smile, she says, “I always knew you’d be dangerous.”

Hermione exhales, relieved, and stands. “I cannot wait to receive your endorsement.”

McGonagall nods.

Hermione’s hand is on the doorknob when McGonagall clears her throat, adding in a low voice, “Be careful. Ambition like yours is dangerous.”

Hermione doesn’t respond.

She leaves McGonagall’s office, deflating when she sees Draco and Leah talking in hushed tones. She staggers towards them, whispering when she reaches them, “Oh my god, you guys, I just  _ threatened _ Minerva McGonagall.”

Draco outright gasps, while Leah just hisses, “ _ What _ ?”

“I told her if she doesn’t support me I’ll pull her funding--”

“You did  _ what _ ?”

“I know!”

“And she let you walk away alive?” Draco asks, face deathly pale.

Hermione nods.

Leah lets out a low whistle. “Well, if you just did that, you can do anything.”

\--

The dinner for the donors goes on for an impossibly long time. Hermione has talked to every single person here, which is really saying something, and they still have at least two hours to go before she can even think about leaving.

Draco and Leah, dressed up in some of the nicest clothes Hermione’s ever seen them in, are flitting around almost manically, trying to strike deals and finalize donations before the end of the night. They keep swinging around, whispering numbers in her ear, pretending like it has to be a debate that some stranger is going to donate 2,000 Galleons to their campaign. Of course, the supposed back and forth just excites the donor even more to donate, and then Hermione will slowly make her way over, thanking the donor quietly, like it’s some kind of precious, little secret. 

All in all, it’s boring. Typical. Her least favorite part of politics.

“Governor O’Don approaching,” Leah hisses in her ear, interrupting her thoughts.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Hermione snaps. “Surround me! Protect me!”

Leah shoves Hermione over to Draco and intercepts Governor O’Don, a grizzled, hulking wizard who, as per usual, has showed up to this dinner without any fucking warning. 

O’Don, a known supporter of Hermione’s opponent, is constantly and consistently crashing their dinners in order to yell at Hermione because she didn’t support his bill or was “late” to a meeting or to confront her about her “extravagant” spending habits.

Astoria compares him to a mosquito. Bloodthirsty, loud, fucking annoying.  _ If only he could be swatted away so easily,  _ Hermione had muttered in response.

But right now she has a pounding headache and resolutely does not want to deal with his bullshit, so Hermione allows Leah to block him while Draco lounges conspicuously in front of her, blocking the majority of her body from his view.

“You look nice today, Draco,” Hermione says as they watch Leah and O’Don argue. 

“Thank you, Hermione. I bought a new suit for this, you know.” He pauses, glancing down at her dress. “That’s quite a nice dress. Where’d you get that?”

“It was a gift,” she murmurs, eyebrows furrowing as O’Don and Leah’s fight grows more heated. 

“From  _ who _ ?”

Hermione tears her gaze away from Leah and makes eye contact with Draco. “None of your business,” she says primly, smiling slightly at Draco’s gasp.

“From a  _ lover _ ? Has she signed an NDA?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “For your information, I ran into Melissa the other day--”

“ _ Rich _ Melissa?”

“And after, I received a package to my flat--”

“Rich Melissa sent you a  _ gift _ ?”

“And a note asking me if I wanted to get drinks sometime.”

“A-- are you going to?”

Hermione scoffs. “No.”

“Well, why not? It’s been forever since--”

“Do  _ not _ finish that sentence,” Hermione snaps.

“Well, you’re wearing the dress, so…” Draco raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“I had nothing else!”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“Oh fuck  _ off-- _ Governor O’Don! Good evening.”

Hermione nudges Draco out the way, pasting on a bright smile at the red-faced Governor. Leah stands behind him, panting. She mouths,  _ I’m sorry. _

“Ms Granger--”

“ _ Governor _ Granger,” Draco cuts in with his signature drawl.

“Governor Granger,” O’Don begrudgingly corrects, scowling at Draco. “I would like to know why you voted against my bill, the bill you  _ swore _ to support--”

“I swore to support your economy bill in return for you supporting my healthcare reform, not your education defunding shit,” Hermione snaps. “When you come out with a legitimate economy bill, I will go over it and, depending on the specifics, support it. But defunding education?”

“It’s a part of the economy bill!” 

“It’s a cheap disguise--”

“It’s a part of my economy bill--”

“It’s a thinly veiled excuse to give more money to your rich friends,” Hermione snaps, voice much louder than she’d like.

O’Don flushes a deeper red than Hermione thought possible, sputtering out some half assed insult, before turning and stomping away.

“Get someone to follow him and make sure he actually leaves,” Hermione murmurs to Draco, who nods and strides away.

“That was absolutely magnificent,” Leah says, hand coming to grip at Hermione’s elbow. “Sorry about him getting by me, normally--”

“It’s fine, Leah. Just tell me, how much longer do we have to stay at this fucking thing?”

Leah glances at her phone. “If you feel comfortable making an impromptu speech, we can be out of here in thirty minutes. I’ll have some interns stay behind to comb for any more donations, but I think everyone’s tapped out.”

“Alright. Let’s write a speech.”

Hermione and Leah part, Leah dialing the head of communications back at the office and Hermione gravitating towards a large circle of donors, all chattering about something or other.  She laughs, she smiles, she pokes fun and does it all gracefully, until Leah’s tugging at her arm, with a polite,  _ Ma’am? Phone call for you.  _ Hermione excuses herself, Leah presses a phone into her hand.

“Talk to me, Niall,” Hermione whispers.

Niall Khoutan, Leah’s brother and Hermione’s head of communications, clears his throat. “Okay, interrupt me whenever you want to change something. Ready?” 

“Go for it.”

“Thank you all for coming. I would not be here, so far along in this campaign, without you--”

“‘So far along in this campaign’? It’s May.”

“And the election’s in December. Grand scheme of things.”

“How about, I would not be here, I  _ could _ not be here, without all of you, emphasis on the could.”

“That’s good, okay-- thank you all for coming, I would not be here,  _ could _ not be here, so far along in this campaign, without all of you. Your donations will fuel us all the way to December, when I will become the youngest Minister of Magic ever!”

“That’s… certain,” Hermione mutters, nose scrunching up.

Niall sighs. “People  _ like _ certainty. They don’t want to think they’re sinking money into a loser.”

“No, no, you’re right, and how about we add on something like, ‘first black, first Muggleborn Minister’--”

“No more ‘firsts’ though, or else people start to get itchy,” Niall interrupts. “This isn’t a rally, it’s a donors dinner.”

“You’re right.”

They workshop through the rest of her speech, often being interrupted by people who want to talk. Hermione rolls with it, smiles, shakes hands, even embraces one woman, until twenty minutes later, when she ends the call with Niall and turns to Leah. “Speech?”

Leah, who had been dutifully taking notes the entire time, nods and hands Hermione a piece of parchment, covered in scribbles and edits. “Focus on the darker ink, that’s the actual speech.”

“Thank you, Leah.”

(She gets a standing ovation for the thing.)

\--

Hermione leaves the dinner, Apparates back to her flat, groans aloud when she sees how dirty it is.

She hasn’t actually slept here for a couple days, so it makes sense, but  _ still _ .

She eats some stale toast and falls into bed, promising herself she’ll clean it another day.

Her hooting owl alarm, a birthday gift from Harry and Ron back in eighth year, wakes her up at 6:30, which is hellishly early, in Hermione’s opinion, but she gets up without complaint, eating more stale toast while scanning the headlines. It’s raining, which she loves. Her phone isn’t ringing, which is a shock. Overall, it’s peaceful, and peace is something she so rarely gets. At 8:30am sharp, she Floos to her office, where the temporary calm she possessed, the surety that everything would be okay, slips through her fingers.

Not because it’s noisy, no, her calm dissipates because it  _ isn’t _ . Silence dominates the usually chaotic office. Hermione sweeps her gaze over the room, realizing the majority of the phones are unplugged, and Niall is conspicuously absent.

“What’s going on?” She demands.

No one looks at her. Not an intern, not a volunteer, no one.

“What is going on?” She repeats, firmer this time.

At her almost-shout, Draco and Leah materialize. “We need to talk in your office.  _ Now _ .”

Hermione’s pushed into her office by the two of them. Astoria hurriedly follows, a pinched look on her face that makes Hermione’s heart leap. Her heavy door thuds shut, and immediately the three of them are all speaking.

“It’s not my-- Can you believe-- what did you say--”

“One at a time!” Hermione snaps. “What the fuck is going on?”

Leah clears her throat and, inhaling deeply, says, “The Daily Press News released a story today. Apparently, uh, they sent someone to the dinner last night to search for stories, and… well…”

“What?” Hermione asks, panic rising in her throat.

Draco flicks his wand, sending a newspaper flying at Hermione’s chest. 

Hermione catches it, jaw dropping open when she sees the cover.

A picture of her, taking a sip of wine, features twisted in an ugly scowl, is splashed across the front, undercut by the headline  _ GOV. GRANGER: “HOW MUCH LONGER DO WE HAVE TO STAY AT THIS FUCKING THING”, THE STORY BEHIND HER HATEFUL WORDS.  _

Astoria starts talking, but Hermione ignores her, flipping to the article.

_ Last night, the Granger for Minister of Magic campaign threw a dinner to celebrate their donors, at least, that’s what they said it was for. In reality, it seems like a scheme to extract more money to fuel their dying campaign. Multiple donors interviewed at the scene said they had been solicited (unprompted) for more money, and were, “sneered at, treated poorly, and dismissed,” if they refused. From there, however, the night only got weirder. At one point, Governor O’Don, a colleague of Granger’s but otherwise unassociated with her campaign, stormed onto the scene, where he and Governor Granger had an explosive fight that ended with O’Don being forced out of the building by one of Granger’s campaign managers, Draco Malfoy. (Yes, that Draco Malfoy.) One invitee called the entire thing “wholly unprofessional” and said he was “considering retracting his donation”.  _

_ After the fight, Gov. Granger was overhead saying, ‘How much longer do we have to stay at this fucking thing?’. Now, to be fair to the Governor, that statement all alone is not that bad. Politicians are under a lot of stress, their schedules are jam-packed, and who among us hasn’t said an embarrassing thing in the wrong moment? However, we must remember that Gov. Granger was saying this in reference to a celebration dinner she was throwing for those who were kind (and stupid) enough to donate to her incompetent campaign. It’s disrespectful, and certainly not the behavior of a Minister of Magic. Send your donations to her opponent’s campaign at the address below. _

Hermione blinks, reads the article three more times. She can feel heavy gazes pinned to her, wondering how she’ll react. 

“Do I… do I regularly make this face?” She asks after a long moment, pointing to the cover. 

Astoria blinks. “That’s what you’re fixated on?”

“Answer the question.”

Leah winces, looking away.

“Y-- yes, that happens to be a regular expression you make,” Draco manages, voice strained. “And, I’m afraid to say that the article, while being total bullshit, has completely overshadowed your Hogwarts visit. But… um, also, that is not the… well, it’s not the worst part of all this.”

Hermione laughs hollowly. “Yeah, no shit. Do I make this face a lot? Like actually--”

“You have an interview with the Daily Press News today,” Leah interjects. 

Hermione freezes. “I… I beg your pardon?”

Leah winces again. “Yesterday, when Astoria gave us the idea--”

“Do  _ not _ blame this on me.” Astoria hisses.

Leah tosses a glare Astoria’s way and continues, “ _ Yesterday _ , when Astoria gave us the idea to do an interview with the Daily Press News, you know, in order to connect with a different base, well, we jumped on it. And then… today…”

“So this was orchestrated then? All masterminded by the fucking _Daily Press News_?” Hermione barks, voice rapidly rising. “You know, just reel us in and then _fuck_ the _absolute_ _shit_ out of us--”

“Oh, wow, okay, I’m just gonna, leave, then. I probably don't need to be here for this?” Astoria, face red, flings the door open and skitters out, casting a panicked look over her shoulder.

“Hermione, let’s just take a deep breath, okay? Niall’s out right now, talking to major, legitimate news organizations about it. He’s taking care of it--”

“Is it a print interview?” Hermione asks, interrupting Leah. 

“No, uh, it’s radio.”

“Oh, okay, well that’s better, right? They can’t twist my words, you know?”

Draco shrugs. “It’s live, though. Dangerous.”

Hermione waves a dismissive hand. “I’ve always been good on live radio.”

“Yeah, but you’re going on live radio with the proudest racist in the UK,” Leah mutters, typing something on her phone.

Hermione barely manages not to scream. “Okay. What’s my schedule for today?”

“Everything has been cleared except for the radio interview at 2pm,” Draco informs her.

“So here’s what we do-- contact Niall, find out what’s saying to the press. Take that, maybe clean it up a bit. Apologetic but firm, and letting the public know what the article got wrong. And plug the phones back in,” she spears a hard glance at Leah, whose idea it probably was, “and feed the statement to anyone who calls. After that’s done, we’ll talk strategy for this afternoon.”

Draco and Leah nod, but don’t move.

“Now!” she snaps, shooing them out of her office. “Go! Go!”

“What are you going to do?” Draco asks, stumbling as Leah shoves him out back into the main floor.

“I’m going to tie up some loose fucking ends,” she replies, slamming the door in his face.

She stands still for a moment, listening as her office surges back to life, with Draco’s sharp yells, ringing phones, and Leah’s quick orders.

After she’s sure that everything is running like it should, she settles in front of her Floo and, with a quick spell, is soon fire- calling the last person on planet Earth she wants to talk to. 

“Ah, Governor Granger. And here I thought you were never going to show your face again.”

“Good morning to you too, Governor O’Don,” Hermione says tiredly, forcing herself to inhale, exhale. “I just wanted to call and apologize for last night.”

“Hm.”

Hermione’s nostrils flare, she can’t help it.  _ ‘Hm’ _ who the fuck does he think he is, with his  _ ‘hm’ _ , she is doing the nice, responsible thing by  _ apologizing _ to this fucker--

“I should not have spoken to you in such a manner in such a public place. It was inappropriate.”

“You aren’t going to apologize for anything else?”

“No.”

“So, you’re apologizing for yelling at me in a public place. Nothing else.”

“I have nothing else to apologize for, Governor.”

“Hm.”

“Do you have something to say?” Hermione asks, a little too aggressively, if O’Don’s scowl means anything.

“You expect  _ me _ to apologize?”

“No, I’ve learned a long time ago that you don't bother apologizing for anything. My expectations aren’t that high. I’m just saying that that ‘hm’ suggests something going unsaid.”

“No. Nothing unsaid.”

“Great.”  Hermione hangs up and buries her head in her hands. It’s not even 9 o’clock and it’s already been  _ the _ shittiest day. Possibly even shittier than the time that photo of her eating a burrito went viral and she was compared to a 40- year old white man because she held it wrong.

She has, what? Six hours until her Daily Press News interview? That’s enough time.

“I'll be back in an hour!” She calls out to the main offices.

“W--  _ what _ ?” Leah shrieks.

Hermione Apparates away.

She lands in Diagon Alley, slightly more gracefully than yesterday back at Hogwarts, and immediately sets off towards Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes where, hopefully, Ron will be working the shop today.

The second she steps in the door, someone yells her name, which she barely hears over numerous explosions that seem to be coming from the back. Looking up to the second floor balcony, she sees George waving to her, head adorned with a smoking blue hat.

She waves back, hesitantly.

“Madame Governor!” He shouts. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I’m here to see Ron!” She shouts back.

He nods, plucking his hat off his head and muttering something into it, and a second later Ron emerges from a side door, eyebrows slightly singed and cheeks red.

“‘Mione!” He booms, wrapping her in his arms.

She grins, hugging him back, coughing slightly as smoke wafts off his clothes. “How’s it going this morning?”

“Busy. I was testing out some new product just a second ago--”

“Yeah, I can see,” she mutters, poking his half eyebrow. 

“Shit, did some get me? I thought I was standing far back enough.” He scrubs at his face with his sleeve, which just reddens his face more. “How’s it going with the campaign? I, er, saw quite an article this morning.”

Hermione groans, turning away. “Let’s not think about that. Just show me around the shop. I need a distraction.”

He nods. “Well, we just got a whole new shipment of love potions in, but we have to lock them up before they go out on the floor, because, you know--”

“Risky product.”

Ron grins. “George keeps putting in orders for more. I tried to convince him to stop, but, well, you know how he is.”

For the next hour, Ron takes her around the shop which she, shamefully, hasn’t visited in months, describing to her the decisions behind this product, how well that product is selling, etc. etc., until they’re interrupted by her phone ringing. 

“Sorry, it’s just Leah,” she tells Ron, stepping away for a moment. “Hello?”

“It’s been an hour.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “I’m well aware.”

“Where are you?” Leah asks, and then, muffled, “I’m on the fucking phone with her right now! Get off me!”

“I’m with Ron at his shop. It’ll take me two seconds to get back.”

“R- _ Ron _ , oh, and how is Ron?” Leah asks, tone completely changing, from firm and unyielding to almost sappy, schoolgirl-ish. Hermione can picture Leah nervously twirling her hair, like she’s 12 and  talking to her first crush.

Hermione rolls her eyes again. “He’s fine. Would you like to talk to him?”

“Well, n-  _ no _ . Um, just tell him I said hi, yeah. And, uh,” her voice pitches down, “get your ass back here.  _ Now _ .”

Hermione hangs up.

“Leah says hi,” she tells Ron, shoving down a smile as he flushes a bright red.

“Oh, yeah, and, er, how is Leah? Doing, I mean?”

“You should come by the office and find out for yourself.” She balances on her tiptoes, pecking him on the cheek. “I have to go, though, so I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, yeah--”

“I’ll see you later, right? When you come by?” She pushes, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine! Jeez!”

“Bye, Ron.”

She Apparates away.

\--

Ron pokes his head into the office at 1:30, right before they leave for the Daily Press News interview, so Hermione does everyone a favor and forces Leah to stay behind.

“You have to keep feeding the statement to the press!” She whispers to Leah. “Just stay behind! Draco and I will be fine.” She quirks her eyebrows. “Keep Ron company, maybe?”

Leah gapes at her. “That’s why I’m staying behind? Are you  _ serious _ ?”

“Toodle-oo,” Hermione trills, flashing her camera-grin at Leah.

“I’m pretty sure this is  _ sexist-- _ ” Leah hisses.

Hermione doesn’t hear the rest of her remark as she strides away, Draco behind her, smirking. “Run-down,” she says as they jog down the stairs and out of the building, brisk air hitting her a little harder than she’d prefer.

“Just keep your cool.”

“That’s it?”

“Any emotion you show, they’ll latch on to. So just keep your cool, take a deep breath, and go over your policies. Show them you aren’t actually the scowling psychopath they make you out to be.”

Hermione frowns. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“Crawling into the belly of the dragon, you mean?”

“No, I just… what am I  _ doing _ ? Why am I trying to be bearable for these... these  _ people _ ? Trying to show them I’m not actually the scary black woman trying to take away their privileges?”

Draco doesn’t respond, so Hermione continues.

“I just… I feel like I’m  _ pandering _ to these people who hate me and-- and, like, don’t want anything to do with me, sort of like I’m  _ begging _ them to like me.”

Draco puts a hand on her arm, slowing to a stop. “You aren’t  _ pandering _ , Hermione. You’re playing the game. There are people out there--” He gestures to the streets behind them, as if to illustrate his point, and continues, “There are  _ real _ people out there who need your help, who need  _ you _ to be Minister. If you need to smile a little too widely at some fucks in order to do that, you should.”

Hermione nods, but she must still look uncertain, because Draco leans closer. “It’s the game. We’re playing it. We’re going to  _ win _ it.”

Hermione nods, fortified, and they continue walking.

“Plus, if you stopped campaigning, I’d be completely out of a job. No one wants an ex Death Eater for a chief of staff.”

“That’s awfully presumptuous of you,” Hermione murmurs with a smile. “What if I hire Leah for my chief of staff?”

Draco lets out a loud, startling laugh. “You’d be wasting all my talent!”

Hermione laughs along with him, knots in her stomach starting to untie.

“Apparate here?”

“Yeah. Apparate here.”

They plunge into world warping, breath stealing Apparition.

\--

“Thank you so much for sitting down with us today, Governor Granger.”

Hermione nods, smiles. “It’s my pleasure.”

The man sitting across from her, Nigel Smith (which has to be the blandest name Hermione’s ever heard), has barely looked her way the entire half hour she’s been here, instead going over his notes, speaking in hushed tones to his assistants, and wiping down his microphone over and over and over.  _ There’s a sickness going around!  _ Hermione heard him whispering.  _ Who knows where she’s been?  _

That had absolutely enraged her. Draco had gripped her shoulder, not saying anything but glaring daggers at Smith. And then, a moment later, looking up,  _ thank you so much for sitting down with us today, Governor Granger.  _ A smug smile.

She knows their game, she knows  _ his _ game. Draco’s words echo in her head.  _ We’re going to win it. _

An assistant clears her throat, waves to get the attention of Hermione and Smith. “On air in 5, 4, 3, 2…”

Draco’s shooed out of the studio and Hermione fits the headphones over her ears just in time to hear Smith, in an eerie broadcaster voice, say, “Good afternoon, viewers! And welcome to Daily Press News radio. Today, we have a very special guest with us today-- you know her,  _ maybe _ you love her, she’s running for Minister of Magic, Governor Hermione Granger!”

He hits a button on his screen, and boos fill her ears. 

She forces herself to laugh as Smith seemingly descends into hysterics over his funny little joke. 

But she knows he knows it’s forced, because his eyes light up a little too brightly, and he’s still smiling when he says, “Oh, my apologies, Madame Governor, you know we’re joking.”

She forces a laugh again. “No need to apologize, Nigel.”

“We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

_ I wouldn’t go that far,  _ Hermione thinks _.  _ But she can’t say that out loud, so instead, she just makes a non-committal noise in the back of her throat.

“So, we’re here today to talk to the Governor about her campaign. Madame Governor, how has the campaign trail been so far?”

“Honestly, it’s been a long eight months, Nigel. And we still have a long six months to go.”

“Goodness, yes, campaigning must be so difficult. How is that impacting your family?”

“Well, I try and see my parents every weekend--”

“Yes, that’s right! You’re unmarried, no children, only child. Your parents are your only family.”

Hermione bristles. “You’re correct. As I was saying, I try and see my parents every weekend, but as we get closer to December, it’s getting harder to get out to the country and see them.”

“The country! Interesting!”

“Yes, but I’d really like to talk about my policies--”

“Oh, don’t scowl at me!”

He presses a button and artificial laughter fills the studio. Hermione’s nostrils flare, and she just manages to wrestle down an actual scowl.

And that’s how it goes for the next 45 minutes. 

Jokes, barely tamed anger, trying to slip in policies. Being interrupted, being mocked, Draco behind the glass looking like he’s about to explode. Nigel asks her about her decision to make her top officials a ‘former Death Eater’ and a ‘foreigner’, and how she thinks that’ll impact her potential administration. He makes her defend her positions on abortion, healthcare, wand control, education. His annoying little soundbites cut through her responses, until finally, blessedly, he nods, signaling to his assistant, who raises her wand and, in looping glittery letters, writes  _ LAST QUESTION! _

“Now, let’s talk about the elephant in the room,” Nigel says, eyebrows raising. 

“Yes. Let’s.” Hermione responds tersely, slightly unsure of where this was going.

“You and the Daily Press News have quite a history. Not even history! Just _ today _ my counterparts over at publishing had quite the thing to say about you.”

Hermione nods. “That’s very true.”

“Would you like to respond to the allegations?”

“All--  _ allegations _ ? You make it sound like I killed someone.”

Nigel laughs heartily. He even hits the artificial laughter button instead of the boos button.

Hermione, slightly pleased with herself, continues, “I’m not going to deny I said those things. I did say that. There’s no excuse for it.”

“So you admit it?” Nigel says, a little too eagerly.

Hermione frowns. “That’s what I just said.” 

Nigel nods. “Please continue.”

“I just wanted to come on the show and say I’m  _ very _ sorry to the donors, firstly, but also to the public for my disrespectful words. It won’t happen again, and I sincerely hope I haven’t severed our trust beyond repair.”

Nigel’s nostrils flare, face contorting into something unreadable. 

Hermione catches Draco’s eye, who’s obviously seen it too.  _ What is that?  _ She mouths. Draco whispers something to the man standing next to him, and then shrugs.

“We’re coming towards the end of the interview,” Nigel says, “and I just want to give the biggest thanks to Mrs. Granger for coming onto our show.” Hermione’s jaw clenches. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!  _ Miss _ . Miss Granger, because you’re unmarried. An unmarried lesbian.”

Hermione’s eyes narrow.

_ Miss _ Granger.  _ Mrs _ Granger. Obviously an insult, to not call her by her title. And the whole ‘unmarried lesbian’ bit, to remind his listeners of that particular detail. Jesus, she’d rather stick a lit cigarette up her own ass than ever come on this show again.

It’s a trap. She knows it is. Of course it is. He wants her to rise to the bait, to snap or yell. Convince the listeners that she actually is unhinged, that she raised her voice so she  _ must _ be dangerous!

Well, Hermione’s much smarter than that. And she’s dealt with much smarter men than the one in front of her.

“Oh, Nigel, you know to call me Madame Governor,” she says smoothly, quietly, with just a touch of humor in her voice. “Thanks for having me,  _ kiddo _ .”

She takes off her headphones and stands in one smooth movement, extending her hand to Smith. He stares at her hand, an ugly frown marring his features. 

“Hermione Granger, everyone,” he murmurs into his mic. “I’m going to take a five minute break and be right back.”

He stands too, casting a derisive glance at her hand before turning away and marching out of the studio.

Draco, coming into the studio, passes him as he leaves, and doesn’t hesitate to give him the biggest sneer Hermione’s seen since their Hogwarts days.

“I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to wring his neck that entire interview,” he murmurs when he reaches her.

“You’re preaching to the choir. How did I do? Good, right?”

“Excellent. Niall’s working on poll results right now. We’ll have them by tonight.”

“Great. Let’s go see how Ron and Leah are doing.”

Draco snickers. “Ronald and Leah. How much do you want to bet he said something awful?”

“Draco, I’m 100% sure he said something awful.”

“10 Sickles it was about her hair.”

Hermione scoffs. “No, 10 Sickles he invited her to Christmas.”

“Christmas is seven months away, Hermione. Even Ron’s not that idiotic.”

“Wanna bet?”

\--

“Well, he asked me what I was doing for Christmas, even though it’s forever away, and then when I said I was going back to Bangladesh to visit my parents, he tried to make a pun out of my name, Leah, and Bangladesh, like Bang _ leah _ desh, and then tried to make it funny for two minutes before finally just saying that if my plans fell through then I could go to the Burrow.”

Hermione grins. “Pay up, Draco.”

Draco scowls, pressing 10 Sickles into Hermione’s palm. “He didn’t say  _ anything _ about your hair?”

“No. Also, I really don’t appreciate you two betting on my love life--”

“So you admit it’s a love life?” Hermione interjects, arching an eyebrow.

“God, shut up! You fucking lawyer!” Leah stands and marches away, turning to glare at Draco and Hermione.

“Leah told you to shut up. Does that mean I’m your new chief of staff?”

“Haha. So funny,” Hermione says flatly, standing too. “When is Niall coming around with the polls?”

Draco checks his phone. “Any minute. He said he was on his way.”

Hermione frowns, checking her phone too, seeing a text from Harry about dinner next week. “How are you and Harry?” She asks absentmindedly, responding with a quick  _ yes.  _

“Fine. Thinking of getting a cat.”

“Cats are nice.”

“If I name it Madame Governor can I be your chief of staff?”

Hermione casts a disapproving glance at him. “No one like desperation, Draco.”

Draco smiles and doesn’t respond. 

“I’ve got them!”

Hermione’s gaze snaps to the door, where a sweaty Niall is victoriously holding a sheaf of papers. “I’ve got the poll results!”

“In my office!” Hermione orders.

Leah, Draco, Niall, and Astoria, the only people left in the building at 10pm, all file into her office, flicking on lights and igniting candles to brighten up the dark space. “I haven’t had a chance to read them, I just collected and printed, you know?” Niall says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Thank Merlin. I was starting to think I wouldn't get out of here until midnight,” Astoria mutters, preparing her quill and ink.

“Never know,” Draco replies. “If these are bad, we could be here all night.”

“Let’s hope they aren’t,” Hermione says quietly, stomach starting to turn. “Okay Niall, tell us what we’re looking at.”

Niall flips through the papers at a rapid pace, scanning the graphs and quotes. After two minutes, he sighs, handing them to Draco. Leah presses closer, peering over his shoulder. Their expressions are unreadable.

“What?” Hermione snaps. “Niall, what is it?”

He winces. “Mixed bag, unfortunately.”

Hermione’s eyes drift to Draco’s face, whose nostrils are flaring. But his face isn’t pink, which is a good sign.

Leah swears softly under her breath and hands the results to Astoria, who simply reads them, stony faced, and then passes them to Hermione.

Hermione sweeps her eyes over the parchment.

_ Reactionary. Mean. Uncooperative. Not likely to vote for. Bitchy. Treated unfairly by the interviewer. Vague. Seems nice. Condescending. Obsessed with title. Won’t vote for. Perhaps I will vote for. Uptight.  _

And then the gritty stuff.  _ Loud. Gossipy. Muggleborn. Why does she have to be gay? Seems promiscuous. Unnecessarily defensive.  _ There’s more, but Hermione doesn’t bother looking any further. 

“This is a conservative base we’re talking about,” Draco starts. “You were already at a disadvantage--”

“We needed more positive results than this,” Leah murmurs, rubbing at her forehead. “There are some people who identify as moderates and progressives on here who are cursing her name.”

Hermione sighs, looking around at the exhausted faces of her team. “Everyone go home.” She says in a quiet voice. “We’ll rendezvous and figure out something tomorrow.”

Draco gapes at her. “N--  _ no _ , we can figure something out tonight, okay?”

“Go home,” she repeats, clenching her jaw so hard something clicks.

“Are you sure?” Niall asks, voice trembling slightly.

“Go home, you guys. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They all file out of her office, whispering amongst each other, grabbing their bags and purses and coats. Niall Floos back to his flat, Draco decides to walk, while Astoria Apparates away, until just Leah’s left.

Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. “There’s some good in there.”

“They don’t like me, Leah.”

Leah’s face crumples. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”

Hermione sighs. “It’s going to be a close election, huh?”

“You’re  _ going _ to be the next Minister of Magic.”

“Of course I will. Now, go home.” 

Leah does, after another long, doleful look.

And then the office is silent.

Hermione sits behind her desk and looks over the poll results again.

She sees how viewers think something’s up with her, she’s 30 and not married? She must be one of those hyper sexual gays, someone says. Another says that, yeah, the interviewer was being a little disrespectful, but how dare Hermione call him ‘kiddo’! That’s not a title befitting of a working man. 

(They don’t see the irony.)

Over and over and over again.  _ Untrustworthy. Too smart. Not a clear thinker.  _ Over and over and over again.

\--

The next day, Hermione has to drag herself out of bed. She went home at 3am, after a night of no ideas and frustration, and didn’t get to sleep until 4.

But as always, she wakes at 6:30 and Floos to work at 8:30, and gets hit with an eerie sense of deja vu when the office is completely silent when she steps through the fireplace.

Except, today is slightly different, because the office is fucking  _ empty _ .

She stands there for a moment, slack jawed. 

No one's here. No is fucking  _ here-- _ is this end of the campaign? No interns or volunteers show up, not even her  _ campaign managers _ , did they jump ship? Is she the political version of the Titanic? Did they all manage to escape, and now she’s just left with an empty office?

“Leah? Draco?” She calls, voice, embarrassingly, trembling.

There’s no outright response, but she hears some voices coming from her office. She swears under her breath and pulls out her wand, wondering how badly the headline  _ HERMIONE GRANGER FUCKING KILLS ROBBERS  _ would impact her reputation.

She pushes into her office, wand up, a spell on her lips, and stops short when she sees Leah, Draco, Niall, and Astoria sitting there, all looking rather put out.

“What the fuck is going on?” She demands, throwing her wand down onto her chair. “I thought you were criminals!”

“Ask  _ him _ !” Leah responds with equal heat, spearing a glare towards Draco. “He sent everyone away.”

All eyes slide to Draco, who still manages to look haughty even as his face flushes.

“You want to explain something, Draco?” Hermione asks, voice deadly quiet.

“I sent everyone away because I have a… very  _ sensitive _ suggestion,” he murmurs, eyes darting around the room.

“Oh, spit it the fuck out,” Leah snaps, which earns her a sharp look from her brother. She scowls at him and slumps back in her chair, typing something out on her phone.

“Last night, I took one of the sheafs of poll results home, the one with all the questions concerning your gayness. I thought Harry and I could look over it together, you know, extra brain power and such and such.” Draco’s gaze darts to Hermione’s. “I went over each individual answer, and I noticed something…  _ interesting _ .”

“What?” Niall asks, frowning.

“People.. like you in a  _ relationship _ ,” Draco says, like it’s the biggest fucking news in the world.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Draco sighs, shaking his head. “I’m saying that if you want to win this campaign, you have to be in a relationship.”

“Well, I’m not in a relationship,” Hermione snaps. “This entire discussion is wasting time, okay? We just have to find another angle. Maybe focusing on my political record--”

“I have someone. Someone who’s willing to help you out.”

Hermione pauses. Even Leah’s gaze snaps up from her phone. 

“Say that again?”   


“Pansy Parkinson. From school. She’s been living in Paris for the past couple years, doing charity work and dabbling in local politics. She’s willing to pose as your very serious girlfriend until the end of the campaign.” Draco waves his hand around. “For something in return, of course.”

“No-- absolutely not!” Hermione says sharply. “We can’t do that!”

Draco cocks his head. “Can’t we, though?”

Leah laughs out loud. “No, no we can’t. Are you out of your mind, Draco?”

“Polls from readers say they would be much more enthusiastic about voting for you if you were in a longtime, committed relationship,” Draco insists, pointing at the parchment clutched in his hand.

“They always say that--  _ if she does this, if she does that, I’ll vote for her. _ And then she does those things, and they still don’t vote for her. It’s just bigotry, plain and simple. No amount of assimilating will fix it,” Leah counters. “Besides, let’s say we manage to convince the public that some girl--”

“Pansy Parkinson,” Draco interjects, scowl deepening as Leah talks.

“ _ Fine _ . Let’s say we manage to convince the public that Ms. Parkinson and Hermione are actually in a relationship, and polls don’t change. Now we’ve just gotten ourselves in a huge pile of lying shit! Plus, what about former partners?” Leah asks. “How do we convince the public that they’ve been together since school when there’s literal evidence that they haven’t?”

“Niall can easily bury any photos, and-- I mean, come on, we get them to sign NDAs. Plus, it’s not like Hermione has many former partners--”

“You act like I’m a virgin!” Hermione objects.

“Well, that’s definitely not true,” Leah mutters.

“Speaking of sex, did Hermione tell you she ran into Rich Melissa?” Draco asks, poking Leah with his finger.

Leah looks up at Draco, gaping. “ _ No _ .”

Draco nods. “Yeah. That dress she was wearing at the donor’s dinner-- a  _ gift _ .”

Leah outright gasps. “ _ No-- _ ”

“Stop it!” Hermione interjects. “I’m not having sex with Rich Melissa!”

Leah’s eyebrows raise. “You totally should.”

“You guys!”

“Oh yeah, sorry, like I was saying, NDAs.”

“I probably shouldn’t be taking notes on this, right?” Astoria asks, and Niall swears, snatching her parchment out of the air and incinerating it with a wave of his wand.

“But here’s the thing, Leah, okay, Pansy can actually  _ help _ the campaign. She’s sociable, charming, rich-- literally everything Hermione isn’t!”

“I’m sitting right here!” Hermione yelps, slightly offended.

“Sorry, but it’s true! Polls say you’re too rigid, Pansy’s loose. Polls say you don’t interact with the media enough, Pansy has the media wrapped around her finger. Constituents say they don’t see you as a person-- Pansy humanizes you! The whole idea of  _ love _ humanizes you!”

“Leah, counter argument,” Hermione murmurs, a call back to something they’d been doing since their humble beginnings as a three person activist organization. Draco says something, Leah counters, Hermione considers. 

Leah doesn’t say anything.

“Leah.  _ Counter _ .”

“He’s right-- all due respect, but Draco’s right. Remember when Ginny had Eloise, a-and a journalist took that picture of you and Ginny in the hospital, she had just given birth, she was just so exhausted, and you took Eloise from her and started singing to her? I mean, that picture went  _ viral _ .” Niall stands at her remark, summoning a box from his desk and digging through it. Leah adds, “It  _ humanized _ you. Sometimes, when people look at you, all they see is ‘Brightest Witch of Her Age’ and ‘Dark Lord Slayer’. Maybe the idea of, you know, a longtime girlfriend, school sweetheart, it’ll soften you a bit.”

“Why should I have to be ‘softened’? I got elected to the Governors Board just the way I am. I shouldn’t have to change-- I shouldn’t have to  _ lie _ ,” Hermione snaps. 

“Ah-ha!” Niall yelps. He pulls out a newspaper and throws it to Hermione.

Hermione barely manages to catch it. He had tossed her a Daily Prophet, dated four years ago, and the front page is covered in Hermione’s face. Hermione talking to Ginny, Hermione embracing Blaise, Hermione singing to Eloise. The headline--  _ GOV. GRANGER CELEBRATES WITH LOVED ONES. _

“Why do we still have this?” She wonders aloud.

Niall shakes his head. “That’s-- that’s not important, okay? What  _ is _ important is that, well, that story was the first positive thing about you published in the papers in  _ months _ . Everything before that had just been how bad a job you were doing as Governor. They were, well, they were just  _ viciously _ attacking you.”

Hermione’s eyebrows furrow as she thinks. After a long moment, she murmurs, “I remember that. It was  _ so _ awful-- remember when Witch Weekly showed up to Ron’s flat and asked him if we had slept together?” 

They all nod, and Draco picks up where Niall left off. “It was a real low point. This article, this paper, it erased all of that. You weren’t human to them, and this forced them to reconsider that standpoint.”

“It’s the same situation now, isn’t it?” Hermione asks, eyes meeting Draco’s.

“This is the game,” he presses. “Don’t you remember that?”

“Of course I do,” Hermione spits. “I’m not stupid.”

“Are we going to play it?” He asks.

_ Politics is a game,  _ her mother had said when she announced she was running for Governor.  _ Are you sure you can play it? _

Hermione sighs, burying her head in her hands. “Any more counters, Leah?” She mumbles.

“No more counters.”

Hermione’s eyes flutter shut. “Niall? Astoria?”

She receives no response.

“What does Pansy want in return, Draco?” 

“She wants us to do appearances at a couple charity events she has lined up,” he says eagerly. “I’ve already written up an agreement.”   


Hermione clenches her jaw, mind racing.

After a long moment, she stands. 

“Draco, call Pansy.”

“We’re doing this?” He asks.

“We’re going to win this fucking election, that’s what we’re going to do.”


	2. Private Jet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What? What are you talking about?”
> 
> Draco sighs, shaking his head. “I’m saying that if you want to win this campaign, you have to be in a relationship.”
> 
> “Well, I’m not in a relationship,” Hermione snaps. “This entire discussion is wasting time, okay? We just have to find another angle. Maybe focusing on my political record--”
> 
> “I have someone. Someone who’s willing to help you out.”
> 
> Hermione pauses. Even Ginny’s gaze snaps up from her phone. 
> 
> “Say that again?”
> 
> “Pansy Parkinson. From school. She’s been living in Paris for the past couple years, doing charity work and dabbling in local politics. She’s willing to pose as your very serious girlfriend until the end of the campaign.” Draco waves his hand around. “For something in return, of course.”
> 
> “No-- absolutely not!” Hermione says sharply. “We can’t do that!”
> 
> Draco cocks his head. “Can’t we, though?”  
> \---  
>  Hermione’s on track to become the youngest Minister of Magic in history. There’s just one issue-- the polls hate her. Well, the polls hate her gayness, specifically. When a solution is presented that could fix everything, who’s she to decline?

It’s raining when Pansy steps off the plane. Well, she doesn’t call it a plane, she prefers referring to it as a ‘private jet’, but whatever, it doesn't matter. Plane, private jet, who cares, right? Anyway, it’s raining when Pansy steps off the private jet.

She unfolds her umbrella, shielding herself from the downpour, and finds herself wishing for the sunny French vineyards she’s called home for the last few years. She certainly hasn’t missed London, not one bit, but Draco’s offer was hard to refuse. After all, how many times in your life do you get an offer to be a trophy wife for a former classmate in order to help said former classmate become the President of the World?

_ You’re the perfect candidate,  _ Draco had told her.

_ Why are you even doing this, Draco?  _ She had replied.

_ Pans. Please. Come on. You know you want to. _

_ Draco-- _

_ What do you want in exchange? _

And that was the end of that.

Pansy had founded two charities in the ten years she had been in France, bankrolled three others, and, well, money could only get her so far at this point. Recently, publicity had been low, a few scandals rocked the administrations, and even her most regular donors were starting to pull out. So, she figured what better publicity than the upcoming Minister of Magic giving her approval? 

Of course, the downside of all this meant having to come to London and stay for at least seven months, maybe longer. 

_ How long will I be doing this?  _ She had asked Draco.

_ Until the end of the campaign, of course. _

_ Really? And then I’m free to go? _

_ Well, you’ll be a lot less front and center after the election, so things will change, but if we just dump you right after the campaign ends, suspicions will be high. So we’ll probably keep you on until-- _

_ Until I die? _

_ Jesus, Pansy, no. _

_ I’m not looking to get married to Hermione Granger for publicity.  _

_ You won’t be getting married. _

_ Yeah, that’s what you’re saying now. And then, in fifteen fucking years-- _

_ Stop it. Can you be here on Monday? _

Pansy had sighed. 

_ Yeah. I’ll be in London by Monday. _

She told no one she was leaving, not like she had anyone to tell, though, anyway. She left some money behind for the charities, covering all the expenses for three months, and then hopped on her private jet.

Truthfully, Pansy doesn’t know what to expect. This could end in the biggest scandal she’s ever been involved with, not that she makes it a habit of being involved in scandals, but still. This could end her, once and for all, could end Hermione Granger, could end Draco Malfoy, all that shit. 

If there’s one thing she’s learned in all of her years, it’s that the press is wholly unforgiving. 

\--

Draco had Owled an address to her yesterday, right before she went to bed, with a scribbled note saying to come to the ‘offices’ as soon as she could. The address, unfortunately, is in Muggle London, which means Pansy, inconveniently, has to take a  _ taxi cab _ in order to get there. The driver seems a little creepy, the entire car stinks of cigarettes, so, naturally, Draco will be getting an earful when she next sees him.

The entire drive takes about twenty minutes. The cab pulls up in front of a tall, fairly respectable building, one that just hums of magic.

“You sure you want to get out here?” The cabbie asks. “Looks sketch.”

She doesn’t answer him, just tips and leaves, purse clutched against her stomach, scuffing her heel on the rough pavement as she ascends the uneven stairs leading to the front door. Pansy buzzes the doorbell, uncomfortably aware that the cabbie is still sitting there, watching her. Of course, no one answers, so she surreptitiously casts an Alohomora and lets herself in, waving goodbye to the driver, who speeds off a moment later. 

The lobby is empty of people, with cobwebs hanging in the corners of the ceiling and dust mites floating through the air. The air is so thick with dust Pansy can’t help but cringe, waving her wand, futilely trying to clear the worst of the webs, and starts up the long, cramped staircase until she reaches the very top floor. There’s only one door in the entire hallway, giving the appearance of an abandoned sort of ghost-y building, reminding Pansy of Hogwarts in the summer. 

The door’s unlocked, so she lets herself in (again), and it’s almost as if she’s been transported to another world. Pure, unfiltered  _ noise _ hits her. She sweeps her eyes over the room, seeing the expansive space, chock full of people, with spells zinging around and papers fluttering from the ceiling, a far cry from the dusty, quiet outside.

“The rally is in two fucking days, people!” A woman yells. “Get your  _ shit _ together!”

Pansy takes another step in the room, wards adjusting around her, wards Draco must have altered to allow for her presence. No one takes notice of her though, too immersed in their work to look up.

“Can we  _ please _ have some semblance of organization?” The same woman snaps, sighing as she rifles through a bunch of documents. Not finding what she needs, apparently, she looks up, huffing out a breath, brown eyes narrowing when she, finally, sees Pansy. “Who are you?” 

Pansy doesn’t answer, a little too entertained by the way the woman stomps towards her, obviously trying to be intimidating. Pansy wants to tell her she isn’t particularly scary looking, being barely over five feet tall and looking like she hasn’t slept in three days. “Are you press? You have to tell me if you’re from the press.”

Pansy cocks her head, glaring down at the small woman. “I’m most definitely not press.”

The woman’s eyes narrow. “You wouldn't mind telling me who you are, then?”

“Where’s Draco Malfoy?”

The woman opens her mouth, like she’s about to start yelling again, then abruptly takes a step back. “Pansy Parkinson?”

Pansy, hesitantly, nods.

The woman grabs her arm and, with surprising strength, yanks her away from the door, leading her through the room, dodging flying spells, quills, and parchment. “Draco said you’d be coming early, but I didn’t believe him, you know. He tends to exaggerate.”

“Where is Draco?” Pansy asks again.

“The Governor got called away for an emergency Board meeting. Draco went with her to help her out with some of her more… difficult colleagues.”

“Granger can’t handle them herself?”

The woman casts a dark look her way. “ _ Governor _ Granger can, in fact, handle them herself. It’s more like Draco didn’t want her to.”

“Do I really have to refer to her as Governor when I’m pretending to fuck her?” Pansy asks in a drawl. 

The woman stiffens, grip around Pansy’s arm tightening to the point of pain. Her eyes dart around, like she’s seeing if anyone heard, and then, coming up on her tiptoes, gets right in Pansy’s face. “If you ruin this for me, for us, for  _ her _ , with your flippant fucking bullshit, I will make sure you’ll never be able to show your face in London ever again, okay?”

Pansy’s nostrils flare. “Who even are you?”

“I’m the fucking campaign manager, you rich, air-headed,  _ bitch-- _ ”

“ _ Leah _ .”

Pansy’s gaze snaps to the door. 

The woman, Leah?, lets go of Pansy, directing a scowl at her before jogging over to where Draco and Hermione Granger stand, official and commanding, in the doorway.

The hubbub of the office dies down, especially when Granger, in particular I’m-better-than-you fashion, sweeps her robes off and folds them over her arm, revealing a fitted grey suit underneath.

“How’d it go?” She hears Leah whisper, and Granger simply shakes her head. Leah winces. “That badly?” 

Draco scowls. “Fucking O’Don.”

“That’s enough,” Granger says firmly, making strong, unsettling eye contact with Pansy. Pansy responds with equal intensity.

Granger looks like she belongs here, with Draco and the other one standing behind her, breathlessly waiting for an order, with all these stickers everywhere with her face on them. Like she’s finally grown out of Harry Potter’s shadow, like she’s got her own place in the world now.

Draco glances at Pansy, sees the odd tug-of-war she and Granger are engaged in. “I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, walking towards her a moment later.

When Draco reaches her, he pulls her in a tight embrace. They’re in the middle of a chaotic room, dozens of eyes on them, but she doesn’t care. It has to have been at least a year since she’s seen him in the flesh, and she relaxes a mite when his head rests on her shoulder.

“I see you’ve met Leah Khoutan,” he murmurs in her ear.

Pansy pulls away, shooting a glare towards the bitchy woman who practically assaulted her earlier, but she’s not paying attention, engaged in a deep conversation with Granger.

“Muggle London?” She replies. “Really?”

He smiles slightly. “How was your cab ride?”

“I’m going to force you to ride in a cab one of these days, see how you like it.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Missed you too.”

“Oh, so soft, aren’t you?” Pansy teases, patting his cheek.

He rolls his eyes again.

“Draco, please introduce us,” comes a low voice.

Pansy and Draco turn, coming face to face with Hermione Granger and her little sidekick. 

“I believe we’ve already met,” Pansy replies, smiling smugly at the two of them. 

Granger’s eyes narrow just the slightest bit. 

“Don’t be a bitch, Pansy,” Draco says in a light voice, though his eyes are staring daggers at her. “Should we go to your office, Hermione?”

Pansy’s nostrils flare, despite herself. Years and years ago, when Draco told her that he was taking up with Hermione Granger in order to jumpstart his political career, she assumed it would last for a year or so, they would be just work colleagues. But here they were, ten years later, smiling at each other and calling each other by their first name and all that shit. 

Pansy starts to feel outnumbered.

“Yeah, office.”

Draco takes Pansy’s elbow and leads her through a great, ornate doorway, into one of the most cluttered offices Pansy’s ever seen. She bites her tongue though, instead schooling her face into an expression of neutrality as she looks around. 

“Here, Pansy, sit,” Draco urges, pulling up a plush, velvet chair for her.

“We don’t have any visitors coming today, do we?” Granger asks in a quiet voice, eyes pointedly on Pansy’s chair.

“No, we don’t. I double-checked the schedule, plus sent a letter to some of our regularly unannounced visitors asking them not to come by today,” Khoutan says as she closes the door. “Okay, down to business.” She whips out two thick sheafs of paper, handing one to Pansy and one to Granger. “These are contracts.”

Pansy scans hers, seeing nothing too out of the ordinary, the assumed  _ don’t tell anyone ever  _ and  _ don’t date anyone during this time  _ and  _ stay in the same flat with Governor Granger--  _

“Wait, I’m sorry, I have to  _ room _ with Granger?”

“ _ Governor _ Granger,” Draco and Khoutan say in unison, and Pansy’s face heats. Draco’s does too, though Pansy can’t fucking  _ imagine _ a reason why.

“I didn’t agree to this,” Granger snaps. “I thought she’d get a hotel.”   


Pansy scowls. “ _ ‘She’ _ is right here.”

“It doesn’t look too convincing if you two aren’t bunking together,” Khoutan says. “Non negotiable. Hermione has a guest bedroom you can stay in, Ms. Parkinson.”

Pansy’s jaw clenches, but she goes back to reading the contract.  _ Required-- two (2) media outings per week, regular appearances at rallies, accompaniment of Governor Granger to fundraisers, galas, etc. In return, Governor Granger travels to Paris and shows her face at two (2) charity events. _

“Only two charity events?” Pansy asks, an edge to her voice.

“You’re in charge of two charities,” Khoutan replies.

“I’m in charge of two, I work with three more.”

Khoutan and Granger look at Draco, whose nostrils flare. “I… I didn’t know that.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Of course you didn’t, Draco. You didn’t try to investigate into my life beyond a fucking Google search. Look, I’ve arranged for all five charities to have events in the five months leading up to the election. Write it into the fucking contract.”

“You do  _ not _ get to speak to us that way,” Khoutan says sharply, standing.

“I don’t give a shit, okay? Write it in.”

“Are you  _ serious-- _ ?”

“Leah, just write it in,” Granger murmurs, eyes still on the contract. “She’s not going to give it up.”

“Once again, ‘she’ is sitting right here.”

No one responds.

Pansy wants to laugh. This is all so fucking ridiculous, and her best friend since, well, ever, is just sitting there, red-faced, because Pansy had the audacity to embarrass him in front of his boss, even though what she said is perfectly fucking true.

She looks back down at the contract.

Everything else seems in order so, with a few minor scribbles in the margins, Pansy signs, handing it wordlessly to Khoutan, who tucks it underneath her arm. Granger does the same.

Draco clears his throat. “Okay, now, onto the issue of former partners--”

“I’m assuming Pansy’s already had that taken care of,” Granger says airily, eyes darting to Pansy’s.

Pansy nods. “We don’t need to worry about me.”

Khoutan looks confused. “And… that’s because of...?”

“Pansy’s rich and has a family name to protect. I assumed all of her former partners have had to sign NDA’s,” Granger says, in that nonchalant,  _ I know something you don’t _ voice of hers.

Khoutan flips through some notes. “Good to know. That’s a lot less to worry about. And Hermione’s only had two partners since she left school. Nadiya, who’s married with kids in Brazil and has signed an NDA, and Melissa, who no one has talked to yet.”

“I’m seeing Melissa tonight at her flat,” Granger says, mouth twisted down. “I’ll take care of it.”

“And if you don’t?” Draco asks in a hushed voice.

“I will.”

Tense silence hangs in the air for a moment, until Draco clears his throat. “Okay, moving on. Prep.” He pulls out two large binders, handing one to Pansy and one to Granger. 

Pansy flips it open, groaning aloud. “You aren’t serious.”

No one responds.

In big, loopy letters reads  _ HOW WE MET  _ and  _ OUR FIRST KISS  _ and  _ HOW WE’VE WORKED WITH LONG DISTANCE  _ and  _ MARRIAGE?  _ and  _ WHY NOW?  _ and a dozen other barth-worthy issues she needs to study in order to sell their relationship _.  _ In the back, there’s a list of Granger’s likes and dislikes, plus a few things to focus on when it comes to Granger and the press. Pansy looks over those for a moment, seeing things like  _ can’t control facial expressions  _ and  _ has a difficult time joking with the press _ . Ah, so she’s here for another reason then. To help Granger with her media fuck-ups.

“Wait, who recorded my likes and dislikes?” Pansy asks, looking around the room. “No one talked to me about that.”

“I did it,” Draco says, waving a dismissive hand.

Pansy scoffs. “So it’s most definitely wrong, then.” She stands, reaching over the desk and plucking the binder out of Granger’s hands, who makes an upset noise, but doesn’t object. She swipes a pen from Draco and starts crossing things out, writing the real answers in the margins.

“I think I know you pretty well,” Draco snaps, voice firm.

In a drawl, Pansy responds, “Then why is nearly all of this wrong?”

Favorite movie when sick, wrong. Favorite book, wrong. Favorite pastime, wrong. Biggest pet peeve, wrong. It’s all wrong or either not quite right, and Pansy doesn’t hesitate to strike a line through Draco’s careful notes whenever she feels like it.

She hands the binder back to Granger when she’s done, not before flipping to  _ her _ issues with the press, seeing in Draco’s handwriting,  _ loose cannon. _ She supposes he isn’t wrong about that,  remembering the time she punched a cameraman for getting a little too friendly.

Granger’s eyes sweep over the pages, eyebrows raising. “Interesting.”

“What?” Khoutan asks, peering over Granger’s shoulder at the pages, which makes a bolt of anger settle in Pansy’s stomach. “Jesus, Draco, how much did you get wrong?”

“Shove it,” he snaps.

“When does the news break?” Pansy asks.

Khoutan cocks her head, thinking. “Niall said either the 26th or 27th.”

“So next week?” Pansy says, wondering who the fuck ‘Niall’ is.

“Yeah. You have the week to read up.”

Pansy scowls. Great.  _ Studying _ .

Someone yells outside of the office, and Draco and Khoutan both perk up. “We’ll be right back, Hermione,” Draco mutters.

They both exit, leaving Granger and Pansy alone.

“Do you want to study together?” Granger asks, eyes still sweeping over the pages. “Might make things easier.”

“No, I’m good.”

Granger blinks, gaze finally meeting Pansy’s. “Really?”   


“Not everyone jumps at the chance of being your study buddy, Granger.”

“Okay then.”

Pansy stands. “See you soon,  _ babe _ .”

She leaves the office without another word.

\--

“You're staying in London for  _ how long _ ?” Ginny asks, mouth agape.

“I want to help with the new baby. You know how much I regret not being around when Eloise was born,” Pansy explains, bouncing the toddler in her lap. “Isn’t that right, El?”

Eloise nods eagerly.

“It’s just shocking. We haven’t seen this much of you since Hogwarts,” Blaise says. “And now we’re hearing you’re going to be staying till December.”   


Pansy shrugs. “Maybe longer.”

“Is everything okay in Paris? I heard about Grandmother Parkinson,” Blaise murmurs, shooting her a meaningful look.

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Everything’s great in Paris. And yes, my grandmother died, but that just means more money in the bank, okay? It’s not like I had an attachment to her anyway,” Pansy responds, thinking of the old, spitty bitch who used to criticize her every move.

“Where are you staying?” Ginny asks, leaning back in her seat.

Pansy’s nostrils flare, remembering her canceled hotel suite and the guest bedroom she’d be living in for the next couple months. “Close,” she informs her in a strained voice. “And, um, you guys, some stuff is going to be coming out in the press about me soon, and--”

“What kind of stuff?” Blaise demands, eyebrows furrowed. “Bad stuff?”

“Not bad stuff,” she tells him, but she sounds unsure even to her own ears. “Just…  _ interesting _ stuff. And before you freak out, take a deep breath and think rationally about it, okay?” She pointedly looks at Ginny’s belly. “No stress.”

They’re both staring at her like she’s insane. Even Eloise, picking up on the awkwardness in the room, stops babbling.

Pansy’s phone buzzes. Thanking Merlin, she stands, escaping Blaise’s and Ginny’s heavy looks and checks the message in the hallway.

_ This is Hermione. Figured you’d want to know the address. I won’t be home till late, so just let yourself in whenever with the key under the mat. Go to the yellow-painted door. _

Pansy rubs at her forehead, rereading the vague message. She knows it has to be vague just for, like, secrecy’s sake, but really. Must it be  _ this _ vague? The next message comes through a second later, containing Hermione’s address. Also in a muggle area. Poking her head back in the living room, she sees Ginny and Blaise heatedly discussing her, and figures she might as well leave.

_ K. _

She grabs her purse and makes a hasty exit, calling goodbye to Ginny and Blaise and yelling she’ll be back tomorrow. 

Granger’s place is actually quite close, so she decides to walk, after Transfiguring her heels into sneakers, of course. 

It’s a cold, brisk night, and she relishes the fresh air after so much time inside, and after the frustrating whatever the fuck that was  _ thing _ with Draco.

Her phone starts ringing.

“Speak of the devil,” she mutters, picking up the phone a moment later.

“Where are you?” Draco asks in a strictly professional tone.

“Leaving Blaise’s place.”

“Have you started studying the binder?”

“No.”

“Wh-- why not?”

“Because I wanted to spend the day with my friends?”

“What is with you today?” He snaps.

“ _ Me _ ? Really?”

“Yeah,  _ you _ .”

“Merlin, Draco, what about you?”

“What about me!”

“Are you even allowed to be calling me? Or did the Governor have to give you permission?”

“Are you  _ serious _ ?  _ That’s _ what this is about?”

“You mean how you were following around Granger like a puppy all day?”

“I was  _ not _ following her around like a puppy-- I’m an adult, Pansy, okay? This is my career. I’m  _ good _ at it. Hermione and I have a working relationship--”

“Please, you probably have drinks with her and Harry every night.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Pansy.”

“Remember when it was just  _ us _ , Draco? When you knew my likes and dislikes, and I knew yours? Do you remember that?”

“You moved away, Pansy. I got busy with my life. This is what adult life is  _ like _ . We aren’t children anymore.”

“You act like I’m stupid.”

“You aren’t stupid. I think you’re jealous, though.”

She forces a derisive laugh. “Jealous of  _ what _ ? What could I possibly be jealous of?”

“The fact that I’ve moved on, Pansy.”

Pansy doesn’t have an answer to that. So she hangs up.

She remembers when she, Draco, and Blaise used to be a united force against the world, against the idiots at Hogwarts who thought themselves better. Then Draco went off and married Harry Potter, his sworn enemy,  _ their _ sworn enemy, and Blaise followed by marrying Ginny. And yeah, Pansy loves Ginny and Harry now, but she can’t help but feel slightly left behind, like she’s stuck in the past while Blaise and Draco move forward, unencumbered. 

She remembers when it was just them, the Silver Trio, instead of… kids and marriage and growth, development, love. Love that doesn’t include her, that has nothing to do with her. And so maybe Pansy did feel left out, maybe she fled to Paris because of it. Paris, where she found nothing but empty apartments and worthless relationships. And now she’s back. Forced to face what she left behind, what happened while she was gone.

So, yeah, maybe she is jealous. But it’s not Draco’s fucking place to point it out.

She reaches Granger’s building and once again,  _ Alohomora _ , lets herself in. She finds the flat (third floor, two doors to the left) and finds the key under the mat. She fits the key in the lock, the door swings open. Magic buzzes over her, probably alerting Granger to her presence, and she flicks a light switch on. 

Her mouth falls open in horror.

The flat, spacious and otherwise very nice, is fucking filthy with clothes, wrappers, uncleaned dishes, and more. Pansy distantly wonders when the last time Granger was actually here, because the counters are covered with a thick layer of dust and grime, with barely visible light streaming in through the dirt caked windows.

“This will not fucking do,” she whispers to herself. She releases her hold on her Transfigured items, her sneakers shifting back into heels and her purse reverting back to the four-piece luggage set she brought with her from Paris. 

She shuts the door behind her and, with one mighty blast of magic, gathers up all the dust and sends it shooting out the just cracked window, spiraling off into the night. From there, she Levitates all the clothes and, refusing to touch them, condenses them, setting them in a pile near the front door. And for the next ten minutes she cleans as much as she's willing to, setting about thirty cleaning spells on the windows and countertops, Vanishing all the garbage, ending with a just bearable flat and… of course, an empty refrigerator. 

Pansy, swearing and starving, digs through Granger’s cabinets, finding the number to the local grocery store scribbled on a piece of paper stuffed away. She orders food to be dropped off, still appalled at the state Granger apparently lives in. Apprehensively, she decides to leave her stuff in the guest bedroom, going through the yellow painted door as Granger (vaguely) directed. 

She flicks the light switch next to the door, and the single lightbulb hanging from a string taped to the ceiling rasps on comically. (She makes a note to change that.) There’s a queen sized bed shoved in the corner with rumpled, dusty yellow sheets stretched over it. A burned out lamp hovers next to the bed, and a couple dead plants sit on top of a large, wooden dresser. It’s obvious this bedroom has never been used or hasn’t been in a very, very long time. 

She investigates the dresser, pleased to see that it’s in good shape. With a flick of her wand, her neatly folded clothes float out of her suitcase and place themselves in the deep drawers. She Vanishes the dead plants and the single lightbulb, plunging the room into darkness. Sighing, she checks her phone. An hour till the groceries get here.

She decides to go shopping.

\--

It’s eight o’clock when the food gets dropped off, and Pansy’s just barely back in time to tip the delivery guy with some Muggle money she found on Granger’s kitchen counter (she’ll pay her back, of course. Or maybe not, maybe she’ll take it as her fee for cleaning up the entire goddamn apartment). 

She puts away the food (having to clean the fridge and cupboards beforehand) and takes her shopping bags into the guest bedroom. 

She went to Diagon Alley and fucked round there for a bit, picking up a bunch of these nice, ambient floating lights and plants that water themselves. She grabbed new bedding, because she wouldn't be surprised if there are fleas or some shit of the sort on that yellow shite, and some fake, knock off paintings that remind her of the Spanish villa she stayed in for a summer a couple years back.

When she’s done with the room, it almost looks like somewhere she could stay in for six months. 

She eats something, and is just about to try and sleep when she hears the lock turn. Pansy finishes cleaning her plates, sending them back to the cupboard with a flick of her wand, and leans over the counter, schooling her features into complete blankness just as Granger stumbles through the door.

Granger dumps her bag on the floor, eyes widening. “Parkinson-- I forgot-- sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” 

“Not cleaning,” Granger explains. Her mouth opens, like she’s about to say more, but then abruptly closes as she looks around the flat. “Though it looks like you did that for me.”

“I also redid the guest bedroom.”

“Oh.”

Granger doesn’t say anything else.

Pansy checks the clock, eyes narrowing when she sees it’s just past midnight.

She leaves the kitchen, heading towards the guest bedroom, calling behind her, “I stocked your fridge, by the way. Didn’t want to starve.”

Granger clears her throat. “Uh, Pansy…” 

Pansy stops, hand on the doorknob. 

“Thank you for-- for all of this. You shouldn’t have had to, but you did anyway. Thank you.”

Pansy doesn’t reply.

“Oh, uh, be up and ready to go by 8:30 tomorrow, okay? We need to strategize for next week.”

Pansy scowls. “8:30?”

“Yes.”   


“Gross.”

Granger’s jaw visibly clenches. Pansy leaves her, standing in the hallway, alone.

\--

Pansy manages to drag herself out of bed at 8:30, only to discover that Draco, Khoutan, and Granger have places to be all day, so she’s just left alone at the office with Khoutan’s brother, the aforementioned Niall, watching her like some kind of babysitter, while she studies the binder.

“Do you want help with that?” He asks her around lunchtime, giving her a dubious look when she declines. “You sure?”

“So, you know about all of this too, then?” She asks him instead of answering.

“Astoria and I, but no one else.”

“Wonderful,” Pansy mutters, turning back to the binder.

They sit in silence for another ten or so minutes before Niall clears his throat, getting her attention.“It’s very…  _ important _ what you’re doing. I hope you know that.”

Pansy looks up from the binder, actually surveying the man in front of her. “You’re the Governor’s head of communications?” She asks.

He nods, black curls bobbing on the top of his head. 

“So you’ve most likely looked over my record with the press, then?”

His brown eyes light up. “You’re very impressive, Ms. Parkinson.”

She can’t help but preen at that, very pleased. “I work hard.”

“You’re very impressive, but no smacking around the press when you’re with the Governor, okay?”

A laugh bursts out of her, a surprising, loud laugh. “He deserved it, I want you to know.”

“I’m sure he did, but Hermione would definitely be blamed for it, so it’s a no-no.”

Pansy purses her lips, nodding. After a moment, she leans back in her chair, eyes narrowing. “Niall, you seem nice.”

“I like to think I am.”

“Well, I’ve been looking over this binder and… I have some…  _ suggestions _ , if you don’t mind. I’m assuming you and Draco worked on these responses for the press, but, I don’t know, they seem  slightly… iffy.”

Niall’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you have an issue with?”

Pansy flips to the  _ WHY NOW? _ page. “Listen to this, so, for the  _ Why Now? _ page, we say, ‘We have waited so long to tell the public about our relationship because we both wanted to separately work on our careers without the opinions of others interfering’.” She wrinkles her nose. “People won’t like that. People  _ like _ their opinions, and us saying we don’t want them, well, we won’t endear ourselves.”

Niall shakes his head. “It shows that Hermione prioritizes her very sensitive career over her relationships. People want that.”

“People want a romance. That’s not romantic.”

After a long moment, Niall nods, grabbing a pen and scratching the paragraph out. “You’re right. What do you think instead?”

Pansy huffs out a breath and smiles. “I have quite a sob story that will poll pretty damn well.”

For the next two hours, they go through every page of the binder, making small alterations, until Granger, Draco, and Khoutan arrive back at the office.

“Hermione!” Niall calls. “I need to alter your binder.”

Granger frowns, but hands it over. “But I  _ just _ memorized it, Niall.”

“Pansy and I were making some changes.”

“Changes?” Khoutan asks, scowling. “Draco and I didn’t approve that.”

“Pansy’s ideas are better than ours,” Niall says matter of factly, sending a satisfied flutter through Pansy’s chest. “I just figured you’d say yes.”

“I’m more than a pretty face,” Pansy says in a sickly sweet voice, handing her binder to Khoutan.

Khoutan snatches it, flipping through it at a rapid pace. She passes it off to Draco after a couple minutes. “You’re right.”

And then she promptly stomps off. 

“I’m so glad I’m fitting in around here,” Pansy murmurs under her breath, which makes Niall laugh. 

“So you two are friends now?” Draco asks, arching an eyebrow.

Pansy grins broadly, throwing her arms around Niall’s shoulders. “We’re  _ best _ friends, Draco.”

Granger smiles a bit, eyes sweeping over the two of them. Draco hands her the binder, and she immediately starts studying it, smile disappearing. “I have to admit, those responses are better than what I came up with,” he informs her. 

Granger looks up abruptly. “Half of these just say to pass to Pansy.”

Niall nods. “Then pass them to Pansy.”

“I’m not capable enough?”

Niall winces. “It’s better to pass them to Pansy.”

“But--”

“I’ll take those questions, okay, Granger? Just trust me,” Pansy interjects, voice firm.

Granger blinks at her. “Alright, then.”

And that’s that. 

\--

Pansy integrates herself into the office easily. The interns and volunteers get to know her as an intelligent, mysterious presence in the office, an impression bolstered by her and Niall’s sudden friendship and her and Draco’s regular, absolutely explosive fights that take up hours.

The first time they started screaming at each other in front of everyone, only Astoria knew what to do. She had a front row seat for years to their screaming matches in the dimly lit Slytherin common room, after all. She calmed them down, only for the issue to reemerge later, in which case she just let them fight. 

Granger watches them with a curious, shrewd eye, Niall gets all sweaty and anxious (along with all the interns and volunteers in the office), while Khoutan simply ignores them.

_ I’ve got more important things to do!  _ She shouts.

After three days, everyone’s used to her presence. She’s almost memorized the binder.

She stays in her room at night, struggling to study the damn thing. Sometimes, when it’s late and she’s particularly desperate, she wants to leave her room, take Granger up on her offer to study together.

She always talks herself out of it.

Niall helps her out during the day, if he has time. He seems just as surprised by Granger’s likes and dislikes as Pansy herself, so their partnership works out pretty well.

“Okay, what is the Governor’s favorite book?” Niall asks.

“Orwell’s Animal Farm,” Pansy replies. “Boom, next question.”

Granger, passing by, clucks her tongue. “Try again.”

“What? It’s  _ not _ Animal Farm?”

“It  _ is _ Orwell,” Niall supplies as Granger slides into a seat next to Pansy and himself.

“1984?” Pansy tries.

Niall lets out a low whistle. “There you go.”

“What’s  _ my _ favorite book?” Pansy asks Granger, raising an eyebrow.

Granger scoffs. “Easy. Anything by Margaret Atwood.”

“Specifics?” Niall presses.

“That’s all she wrote,” Hermione frowns, turning to Pansy. “What  _ is _ your favorite book?”

“I doubt this will come up, Granger.”

“Just in case,” Niall supplies with a pointed look.

“Merlin, fine. Um, most likely the Robber Bride by Margaret Atwood.”

Hermione cocks her head, as if she’s thinking. “Haven’t read that one.”

“How surprising,” Pansy mutters. “Okay, Niall, next question.”

“Pansy, what is... Hermione’s favorite pastime?”

“Reading, but if I’m talking to the press I add on,  _ and helping her constituents!,  _ just to cover all the bases.”

“Same question to you, Hermione.”

“Judging people, but we tell the press it’s people-watching.”

Niall grins. “Excellent.”

They go back and forth like this for a while, laughing and almost enjoying themselves, until Niall’s phone buzzes. He hands the binder to Pansy, craning his neck to check it. A moment later, the joking, flippant look on his face abruptly sobers. “The photographer is here,” he says in a quiet voice, eyes darting up to meet Granger’s.

Granger’s expression undergoes a familiar transformation.

Because this isn’t a fun guessing game, this isn’t a first date, this isn’t an opportunity for new friends, this is a job. A high-stakes job. A job that, if failed, will affect every single person here, even plunging their lives into disarray. More than disarray, really. Destruction.

The photographer is here, and now they’re going to have to lie some more, to their friends and family and everyone else in the whole damn world. 

It isn’t a game.

Niall and Granger stand, muttering amongst themselves. Pansy’s gaze drifts to the door on the other side of the room, where a squat man with a camera hanging around his neck is signing document after document after document, all dutifully held by Draco.

Draco, obviously bored, starts drifting too, eyes meeting Pansy’s after a moment. His eyebrows furrow.

She doesn’t know what he sees. She certainly doesn’t know what she herself sees. 

Draco looks away, saying something to the photographer, who wanders over to where the three of them are gathered. “You contacted me, Governor?”

Pansy admires his gall. Speaking directly to the Governor without prompting, it’s very impressive. His eyes dart down to Pansy. She nods at him.

He does not nod back.

Okay, maybe she doesn’t admire his gall, the fucking prick. Maybe he’s just arrogant and dickish--

“Yes, but I have a very specific vision for the photos, “ Niall says, pulling the photographer aside. They speak in hushed tones.

After a couple minutes, the photographer nods. “You just direct them, I’ll get the shot.”

Niall claps his hands together, gesturing for Pansy and Hermione to stand by the windows. “Okay, so we’re going to get a view shot, so I just need you two to stand, hand in hand, maybe looking at each other, but overall looking very official and serious and commanding.”

They awkwardly comply, shuffling over to the window and, after a moment of apprehension, Pansy grabbing Granger’s hand.

It’s warm. Calloused. Granger shifts uncomfortably, adjusting so her arm isn’t being yanked. Pansy doesn’t let go.

Pansy leans against the glass, tilting her head slightly towards Granger, studying her face. She’s not a good actor, which could complicate things. She’s not a good model, either, mostly because she’s too in her head. She keeps looking over to the camera like it’ll bite her. 

Impulsively, Pansy squeezes her hand.

Granger’s gaze snaps to hers, confused and slightly intrigued. 

The dicky photographer’s camera goes off with a flash. 

“Now, look like you like each other!” Niall calls.

Pansy complies, pasting on this yearning, loving expression on her face, one that has Niall yelling, “That’s  _ perfect _ , Pansy!” He, very obviously, does not echo the sentiment to Granger.

Mostly because Granger looks constipated.

“Loosen up,” Pansy murmurs, letting the face drop for a moment. “Do you have to take a shit?”

Granger looks wildly offended. “No!”

“Joke,” Pansy says, arranging her features again.

“Oh. That’s an… odd joke.”

She settles into this puzzling face which, if you don’t look too closely at, can look like mild tolerance. The photographer’s camera flashes again.

Niall directs them to sit on opposite sides of a desk, hands interlaced over the wood surface, Pansy reading a random book Niall grabbed and Granger pretending to be on the phone. 

He has them sip coffee together, make funny faces at each other. As time goes by, as the sky outside starts to darken and people start to filter out, Granger relaxes by miles, making each picture more and more enjoyable. Mostly because Pansy doesn’t have to prompt her. 

Pansy stares into Granger’s depthless eyes and holds her hand and brushes her fingers over her cheek and wraps an arm around her waist and laughs and grins and pretends to enjoy her company.

Pretends to love her.

Granger’s hand is warm in hers, the fabric of her shirt soft brushing against Pansy’s arm, her breath quick and uneven hitting Pansy’s neck. 

At one point, Draco and Khoutan sit and watch them. Silent. Observant. Then Khoutan leaves and it’s only Draco. He, sitting there all alone, unnerves Pansy more than she’d ever admit.

At six, the photographer calls it quits.

He leaves without another word to Granger or Pansy (not that he said anything to Pansy in the first place), with a stern reminder from Draco that if he violates any of the privacy agreements they can sue him for everything he’s worth.

Granger winces at that.

“Well, I’m going to go,” Pansy says to no one in particular, grabbing her purse.

“I’ll be back late,” Granger says, just like she has the past couple days.

Pansy starts to respond with something snarky and cute about Granger being a bad actor, but is cut off by a yell from Khoutan. “Poll results from the rally are printed!”

They all rush into Granger’s office. Leaving Pansy alone. 

Sighing slightly, Pansy leaves.

She makes it to Ginny’s and Blaise’s just in time for dinner, and has a chaotic meal with them that ends with her having to spell Blaise’s shirt clean after Eloise throws a bowl of applesauce at him. Later, she walks back to Granger’s flat and, after watching a couple of episodes of some reality show on Granger’s humongous fucking television, calls it a night. 

She wakes up, bladder full, around 2am. When she leaves her room to go to the bathroom, she’s greeted by the sight of Granger, still in her work clothes, passed out on the couch, a book clutched loosely in her hand. Pansy gently takes the book from her, intending just marking her page and going, but her entire body stills when she realizes that the book Granger had fallen asleep reading was a newly bought copy of The Robber Bride. 

And if that isn’t terrifying enough, an old Polaroid is being used as the bookmark. Upon closer inspection, Pansy sees the picture is of Granger and Harry, hugging and smiling at the camera. Barely visible in the background is Pansy, tongue out, eyes closed. 

She flips the film over.

Scribbled in pen reads,  _ photobombed by the one and only. _

Pansy brushes her fingers over the picture, over the cover of the book Hermione had rushed to read, heart thudding a little too hard in her chest. 

Silently, she tucks the picture away in the pages, puts the book back down next to Granger and goes straight back into her room.

\--

Pansy is, disgustingly, doing  _ work _ .

She had just been sitting there, distracting Niall, when Khoutan swept through, dropping two giant piles of paper in her lap, telling her to organize them by date. 

She had started to object, but Draco had given her a look, so she just glared and sorted. Glared and sorted. Glared and sorted. Meanwhile, Niall was having the time of his fucking life, watching her engage in actual  _ labor _ .

“Stop laughing!” She snaps, doing an extra angry glare in his direction.

“Stop looking so put out!” He responds with a snort, turning back to his computer. 

She keeps glaring.

Granger drifts over, eyes widening. “Who gave you work?”

“Take it up with Khoutan,” Pansy replies gruffly. “I thought I was just here to be sexy and mysterious, but  _ no _ , apparently--”

“ _ FUCK _ !” 

Pansy is standing in a moment, wand out, Granger next to her, doing the same.

But there’s no threat, obvious when Draco comes sprinting, face red and hair matted on his forehead. 

“Draco, what?” Khoutan asks, reaching for his arm.

He pulls away, holding his phone up to the room and waving it around wildly. “O’Don and Barr are doing a joint press release tomorrow.”

Pansy looks around, trying to see what the significance of that is, stomach sinking when everyone starts swearing.

“What-- what does that mean?” She asks. Draco lets out a strained  _ fuck  _ before collapsing in a nearby chair, not answering her question.

“It means they’re endorsing Perry. Together,” Granger says tersely. 

“Your opponent, Perry?”

Granger just nods.

“Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah, no shit ‘shit’. Fuck. We have to release the news of your relationship now,” Leah snaps, diving for Niall’s computer. “Do you have a press release ready?” 

Niall nods, sweat beading at his temple. “Pictures, statements, all of it.”

“Send it to Witch Weekly, Daily Prophet Online, fucking everyone, okay? Do it  _ now _ .”

Niall starts typing away, grabbing his phone and dialing someone’s number, barking out, “Now! I know I said Monday, but it’s happening now!”

“Listen up, fuckers!” Leah shouts to the assembled interns and volunteers. “Our phones are about to blow up! If someone calls about the Governor’s relationship with Ms. Parkinson, this is what you  write…”

Leah grabs her wand and spells out mid-air,  _ Yes, I can affirm that Governor Hermione Granger and Ms. Pansy Parkinson are in a romantic relationship. If you would like to know more, you can schedule an interview with the aforementioned parties at this number. _

“Give them either Astoria or Niall’s extension, okay?”

Draco stands, face pale. “We’re staying so fucking late tonight.” He grabs Pansy’s elbow. “Do you have the binder memorized?”

Pansy nods, daring a glance at Granger, knowing that all eyes are on them.

“Here we go, huh?” Granger says, eyes locked on Pansy’s.

“Yeah. Here we go.”

\--

That night, Pansy receives a phone call. 

She knows who it is before she even looks at the screen. Because who else would be calling her? Her parents are dead, her grandmother’s dead, she has no brothers or sisters or cousins. The Parkinson line is dying, after all, so she knows who it is before she can even hope it isn’t them.

“Is this for real?” Blaise asks when she picks up the phone. “Are you-- how long has this been going on? Why didn’t you  _ tell _ me?”

He sounds like he’s about to cry.

That makes Pansy want to cry. 

She’s sitting, alone, in a stranger’s flat, trying not to cry, with the phone held up to her ear, knuckles white. Blaise is whispering through the phone, like he’s trying not to wake Ginny or Eloise, voice trembling. 

“Pansy, I mean--  _ come on _ ,” he says, voice cracking. “Please say something.”

She wants to say  _ I’m sorry  _ and  _ please don’t hate me for this  _ and  _ one day I’ll tell you everything  _ and  _ sometimes I wish it was still just the three of us  _ and  _ I love you so much.  _

She doesn’t, though.

“Blaise.” She inhales, long and deep, shuddering. “It’s so complicated.”

“What does that  _ mean _ ?”

It means she took this job because she knew it would help. It would help those she had sworn to protect, it would help those who needed her help the most, it would help her emptying bank account. She took this job because she was desperate and lost, and now she’s desperate and lost,  _ again _ , just in a different place, and she has to face the consequences of her actions, with Blaise saying  _ please say something  _ and the call she’ll get from Ginny tomorrow and how stressed they’ll be and how their child will be born knowing her as a liar. 

It means she wishes, so fervently, that it was just the three of them again, once upon a time, sneaking Pansy into the boys’ dormitory and playing Exploding Snaps until one of the upperclassmen forced her out, and eating lunch together, and walking around school together, and holding hands because being around each other meant being a little less scared.

“It’s just so fucking complicated.”

Pansy hangs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ch.3 will most likely be up next week-ish.  
> Once again, thank you all for reading.


	3. Ringing Phones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What? What are you talking about?”
> 
> Draco sighs, shaking his head. “I’m saying that if you want to win this campaign, you have to be in a relationship.”
> 
> “Well, I’m not in a relationship,” Hermione snaps. “This entire discussion is wasting time, okay? We just have to find another angle. Maybe focusing on my political record--”
> 
> “I have someone. Someone who’s willing to help you out.”
> 
> Hermione pauses. Even Ginny’s gaze snaps up from her phone. 
> 
> “Say that again?”
> 
> “Pansy Parkinson. From school. She’s been living in Paris for the past couple years, doing charity work and dabbling in local politics. She’s willing to pose as your very serious girlfriend until the end of the campaign.” Draco waves his hand around. “For something in return, of course.”
> 
> “No-- absolutely not!” Hermione says sharply. “We can’t do that!”
> 
> Draco cocks his head. “Can’t we, though?”  
> \---  
> Hermione’s on track to become the youngest Minister of Magic in history. There’s just one issue-- the polls hate her. Well, the polls hate her gayness, specifically. When a solution is presented that could fix everything, who’s she to decline?

The Daily Prophet article about them is glowing. Draco Owled it to her flat this morning, along with a note that contained orders for her to stay at her place until ten. At 10:01, she and Pansy should Apparate to Diagon Alley and be seen publicly walking hand-in-hand to the Quibbler offices, where they’ll conduct their first interview concerning their relationship.

Pansy rejoiced at the news that she would be able to go back to bed, but, strangely didn’t, instead nursing a cup of tea while reading the article.

“Here’s the picture they took of us the other day,” she murmurs, pointing at the black and white photo of them laughing at a hypothetical joke, heads tilted against each other’s. “And here’s the photo Niall worked all day on photoshopping, you know, to get the wrinkles out of our hands.” Hermione peers over Pansy’s shoulder, smiling slightly when she sees a shot of them, backs to the camera, holding hands, hair slightly altered. 

Pansy frowns, pointing to a smaller picture at the bottom of the page. “What’s this one?”

Hermione pulls the paper closer to her, squinting. “Is that our end of eighth year school photos?”

“Draco must have given it to Niall.”

On the last day of school, eighth year, Ginny suggested taking some commemorative photos to remember the year where Draco and Harry fell in love and Ron finally got a good grade in potions and all that shit, so all of them, Harry, Draco, Ron, Blaise, Hermione, Ginny, and Pansy gathered in the courtyard with a camera.

At one point, Draco and Harry started making out in front of everyone and Hermione, tired of their cheesy, unrelenting love, rolled her eyes and looked away from the camera. She met Pansy’s gaze, who was also rolling her eyes.

She had smiled.

Pansy had smiled back.

Hermione traces a finger over the picture. If someone was already thinking, ‘they’re deeply in love’, it’s obvious. They’re smiling, looking only at each other. It seems deeply personal.

Well, if the campaign’s goal was to make her look more human, more relatable, they had certainly succeeded. As Hermione’s eyes linger on the photos, she doesn’t see a lawyer or politician or driven activist, she just sees… a normal person.

“It certainly sells it,” Pansy murmurs.

Hermione leans away. “Yes, it does.” She exhales slowly, arching an eyebrow. “Are you ready for today? It’s going to be rough.”

Pansy snorts, smirking slightly. “I’ve been acting my entire life. This is just another thing to do. Are  _ you _ ready?”

Hermione nods. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Great, because you  _ have _ to read this section of the article. Listen to this--  _ Parkinson and Granger have reportedly been together since their Hogwarts years, successfully hiding their relationship from friends, family, and colleagues. Although we have not yet heard why they have chosen to hide for so long, we do know that their relationship has us squealing with delight. _ ” Pansy arches an eyebrow. “What the fuck?  _ Squealing _ ?”

Hermione smiles slightly. “We have all of Britain squealing, Pansy. It’s the highlight of my career.”

Pansy shakes her head, standing. “Okay, I’m going to go change. Leaving in five, right?” 

Hermione nods.

Pansy shuts herself in her room, audibly humming, and Hermione takes the moment alone to look over the newspaper again. 

_ They have conducted a long distance relationship for nine years, starting when Ms. Parkinson moved to Paris, France to start a charity and Gov. Granger stayed in London for law school. Since then, of course, Gov. Granger has had a wildly successful career in law and activism, which transitioned into her becoming a politician. Ms. Parkinson has started two charities, one supporting domestic abuse victims and the other providing free therapy to all who need it, and regularly works with three more. Want to support these charities? Contact information is down below. _

Hermione hates how easily everyone bought it. Hates how easy it was to lie.

Hermione’s phone buzzes just as Pansy exits her room, looking disconcertingly attractive in a tight green dress. Hermione’s attention is torn between her phone and the effortless way Pansy smoothes her hair back with a barrette, but eventually manages to focus. 

“Ready?” Pansy asks.

“Yes. Draco just texted, reminding us that we should, at no point, convey anything that could be construed as a ‘negative facial or body expression’ and to be courteous but mostly ignore those who  try to ask us questions.”

Pansy frowns. “He acts like we’ve never engaged with the press before.”

Hermione doesn’t answer, just holds out her hand. “I’m going to Apparate us right into Diagon Alley.”

Pansy laces their fingers together and nods.

A moment later, sunlight is blasting into Hermione’s eyes, chatter from the crowd hitting her ears. Instinctively, she tries to pull away from Pansy’s hand, but Pansy holds on tight, immediately pressing forwards through the crowd. 

“Come on, Granger,” she murmurs. Hermione snaps out of her momentary stupor, falling into step with Pansy, trying not to stiffen as people almost immediately start taking pictures of them.

Pansy is casual, content, occasionally looking over at Hermione, not even taking notice of the cameras. Apparently, the same can not be said for Hermione, because after a minute, Pansy leans down, nose brushing her ear, and whispers, “You look afraid.”

“I  _ am _ afraid,” Hermione whispers back.

“You defeated Voldemort. How is this scary?”

“I suppose you have a point there.”

“Pretend like I said something funny,” Pansy says, lips curving up in a satisfied grin.

Hermione wrinkles her nose. “My fake laugh is really obvious.”

“Merlin, how are you a politician, then?”

“Must you criticize me right now?”

“Okay, then I guess I’ll just have to say something actually funny. Um… so did you know I used to work at a bank?”

“You did?”

“Yeah, but I got fired.”

“What? Why? This isn’t very funny.”

“Well, an old lady came in and asked me to check her balance, so I pushed her over.”

Hermione slows, horrified eyes turning to Pansy.

“It’s a joke.”

She blinks. “Oh.” Her face lights up in a bright smile when she finally understands. “Oh, because you’re checking her balance-- ohh, I get it now. That’s quite funny!”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “You always surprise me. For example, I thought you were smart, but you just proved otherwise.”

“It’s a confusing joke!”

“No, it’s funny!”

“You’re really going to have to work on your jokes if we’re going to win this campaign,” Hermione murmurs, completely matter of factly.

“You’re going to have to work on your sense of humor,” Pansy replies. “That’s the funniest fucking joke ever.”

Hermione nudges Pansy slightly, inconspicuously pointing to the reporter taking about a hundred pictures of them on the corner.

Pansy nods. 

“Draco and Leah are meeting us at the Quibbler offices. Niall would be too, but he’s so caught up in, well, you know.”

“What a shame.”

“You and Niall are close, right?” Hermione asks. After a moment, she adds, muttering, “Well, as close as you can be after knowing each other for five days.”

“Niall and I will never be as close as the two of us, honey bear,” Pansy coos, batting her eyelashes at Hermione. “Don’t get jealous.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Don’t you ever get tired of the constant sarcasm?”

“Never.”

“This will be a great partnership then.”

Pansy doesn’t respond.

“We’re here,” she says a couple blocks later, pulling Pansy towards the giant Quibbler sign at the end of the street. “When’s the last time you saw Luna?”

“Hogwarts.”

“She hasn’t changed much.”

“I’d be surprised if she had.”

Any response Hermione might have had is gone when they walk through the door and are immediately swarmed by the campaign team.

“Some stupid fucking reporter won’t stop bothering me--”

“Madame Governor!”

“Ma’am, this needs your sign off--”

Hermione parts from Pansy, delving into the center of the throng, dealing with each issue one by one. 

Her heads of fundraising, an older wizard whose background is in accounting and a 20-year old public relations major (an unlikely partnership that yields excellent results), proudly announce a huge boom in donations, Draco lets her know that they’ve gotten two dozen more requests for interviews, but Leah’s has to be the most fun to deal with, only because it involves her rant about how much she hates modern day quills, a random subject she tends to talk about a lot. 

She and Pansy float through the Quibbler interview, then a Wizarding World Lately radio interview, a photo shoot for Witch Weekly, and two more interviews for some small magazines before the last thing of the day, the Daily Prophet Online segment, which is being live-streamed to anyone who has a subscription.

_ That will be the most difficult one. Just get through it.  _ Draco had whispered to them right after the Quibbler interview.

Leah had grinned, nudging Draco away.  _ On a lighter note, no one is paying attention to O’Don and Barr’s endorsement. Meanwhile, you are dominating the news. This is going as well as it could. _

Hermione hangs onto those words as she sits down in a wildly uncomfortable chair, Pansy next to her, facing The Daily Prophet’s most prolific reporter, Mike Axa.

“Good afternoon, ladies. Thank you so much for sitting down with me today,” he says in a smooth voice, grinning ear to ear. “Now, some news has come out about you two recently.”

Hermione and Pansy nod.

“First of all, congratulations.”

“Thank you so much, Mike,” Pansy says, Hermione murmuring something of that effect as well.

“Now, I’m going to ask you some questions today about your relationship, how it started, the nuances of long distance, etcetera, etcetera, and then we’ll do some fun couples questions for our viewers. Sounds good?”

“Sounds  _ great _ ,” Hermione says, Pansy smiling along.

And it really is a shame that they haven’t been doing this the entire campaign, because Hermione can’t help but notice how beautifully she and Pansy move together, prompting and finishing each other’s sentences, a well-timed laugh there to cover up a stumble in words, a shoulder squeeze to accentuate a point. Back and forth they go, smiling widely and easily.

“Governor, what is Ms. Parkinson’s favorite pastime?” Mike asks at one point, smiling broadly.

Hermione glances at Pansy, smiles, then back at Mike. “Pansy loves people-watching. She does it all the time.”

“Oh-ho, watching other people? And you don’t get jealous, Madame Governor?”

Pansy cuts off any response Hermione might’ve had with a loud, thick laugh. “My goodness, Mike, you’re certainly a fan of inappropriate questions!”

Mike laughs along and moves onto the next question, something about Hermione’s favorite book that Pansy starts chattering about, but Hermione doesn’t follow, stuck in awe of what just happened. If she had responded to his question like that, it would have come off as guarded, rude, but when Pansy did, with just the right ratio of joking and seriousness, that not only got the interviewer laughing, but also to move off the topic as well.

She shakes herself out of it just as another question is directed at her.

It goes on for another twenty minutes, until a light flashes behind the camera, signaling the last question.

Mike clears his throat, smile sliding off his face. “Now, finally, I have a question I think a lot of people are wondering. Why  _ now _ ? Why not come out with your relationship years ago?”

Hermione’s mouth opens, acknowledging the question before she can even think about it. 

_ Pass to Pansy,  _ Niall had urged. 

_ Just trust me,  _ Pansy had said. 

_ PASS IT TO PANSY _ Niall had written, had underlined a dozen times. 

All Hermione has to do is ask,  _ Pansy, do you want to take this one? Can you not fuck this up?  _ It’s all she has to do. 

Then again, trusting other people to not fuck up had never been one of Hermione’s strengths.

“We wanted to focus on our careers,” Hermione says. “Our separate lives and careers, mine in politics and Pansy’s in philanthropy, are  _ very _ important--

She cuts herself off abruptly when Pansy lays a hand on her arm. Hesitantly, she lifts her eyes to meet Pansy’s, seeing nothing but barely hidden indignance reflected back at her. Which is why it’s all the more surprising when Pansy says, voice calm as can be, “It’s okay, Hermione. You don’t have to protect me anymore.”

Mike leans towards them. “Wh-- what was that? Protect her from what?”

Pansy, a little pointedly, pulls her hand away, ducking her head. When she looks back up at the camera, her entire demeanor has changed, into something vulnerable and pitiful, where before she was confident and suave.

“My grandmother, Letitia Parkinson, died in April,” she starts, and Hermione has to cough into her elbow in order to disguise her shock. This was the ‘sob story’ that took precedent over a completely solid and fool-proof response? Her grandmother fake-dying? “Unfortunately, she did not approve of gay people, or anyone she deemed ‘not traditional’. I knew that if I showed her us, she would cast me out of the family, never speak to me again.” Tears spark in her eyes. “Some may call me a coward, but I wasn’t strong enough to go through that. I couldn’t deal with my grandmother  _ hating _ me like that, so we kept it under wraps.” She takes a deep breath, like she’s summoning all of the strength she has. “Hermione was gracious enough to allow for this. After my grandmother died, we started to talk, and I realized I didn’t want to hide anymore.”

Impulsively, Hermione grabs Pansy’s hand. Pansy doesn’t even act fazed, just continues wiping her eyes. For the camera, though, it’s perfect, showing comfort and love passing between two people who have gone through the trauma of having to show their true selves. Pansy sniffles and murmurs a _thank you_ to the interviewer’s condolences, and then they move on.

The interview passes without any more bombshells.

At some point, Pansy lets go of Hermione’s hand.

\--

They leave the Daily Prophet’s studio, smiling and thanking the crew, and the very minute they’re out of sight Pansy’s grip around her arm tightens to the point of pain, and she’s yanking Hermione into a nearby bathroom.

She marches down the hall, kicking open cubicles, most likely to make sure they’re empty, and once she ascertains they are, turns on Hermione with a rage that makes Hermione instinctively step back.

“What the  _ fuck _ was that?” Pansy hisses.

“Are you talking about that  _ one _ question earlier?  _ Really _ ?” 

“Yes,  _ really _ . Merlin, Granger, you made yourself out to be a liar and me out to be a  _ fool _ .”

“Jesus, Pansy, it wasn’t like that. You’re just being dramatic. You handled it fine--”

“I shouldn’t have needed to handle it! You should have stuck to the fucking binder!”

“No one told me what you were going to say, okay? I don’t wing it like that, especially in such a high stakes situation.”

“So now it’s my fault because I didn’t tell you everything single thing going on in my mind?”   


“Uh, frankly, yeah.”

“Merlin’s fucking balls, is that what I’m going to do have to deal with? We have to be a team for this, Granger, believe it or fucking not. That means you have to  _ trust _ me.”

Hermione’s nostrils flare. “Believe it or not, I _don't_ trust you. I barely _know_ you.”

Pansy doesn’t reply, just inhales deeply, exhales slowly, eyes fluttering closed. After a long minute, her eyes open, she says in a calm voice, “We’ve been in here too long. Let’s just go.”

Hermione doesn’t reply, just holds out her arm. Pansy loops hers through delicately, mouth set in a hard line.

They exit. People smile when they see them. It’s all Hermione can do to smile back. 

\--

“You guys were fucking perfect today!” Draco shrieks when they walk through the door. 

Hermione smiles tersely, Pansy stays glaring at no one. They’re still wrapped around each other, which seems slightly ironic to Hermione, but she doesn’t mention it to anyone.

“In your office,” Leah urges, hurrying across the room. “Niall, Astoria, stay out here and keep answering phones.”

Hermione complies, pulling Pansy along with her.

The very second the door to her office closes, Pansy pulls away from Hermione, grabbing her phone and tapping into something. 

Was this how it was going to be? Pretending to tolerate each other for eight fucking months and then ripping each other’s heads off behind closed doors? Truthfully, Hermione doesn’t know if she can deal with that, even if it’s for the greater good. 

She tunes into what Draco’s saying.

“... excellent, well done.”

Pansy passes her phone to Draco. “Here’s an article detailing the top ten ‘cutest’ moments from me and Granger’s interviews today.”

Leah leans over, reading over Draco’s shoulder. “Fucking brilliant, you guys. This is going so fucking well.”

Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose. “Polls?”

“All positive, except for the homophobes. But they weren’t going to vote for you anyway.”

“And… er, suspicions?” 

Leah nods. “Three larger conservative websites are floating around the idea that your relationship is a little too convenient, ergo it’s fake. They’ve been branded as conspiracy theories and are being largely ignored.”

Hermione lets out a relieved breath. “Thank Merlin.”

“So, success?” Pansy asks, arching an eyebrow. 

Leah and Draco nod eagerly. “Huge success. And you’re doing it all again tomorrow.”

Hermione sighs, relaxing back into her chair. “Give it to me.”

“9am, Governor’s meeting. Pansy you don’t have to be there, but it would be nice for press reasons if you were there to greet her when she leaves the Ministry. Then another photoshoot, another interview, and, er, another interview.”

Hermione nods, grimacing slightly. “Wonderful.”

“Also, we need to write a speech about jobs.”

“Jobs? Why jobs?”

“We’ve invited three different labor unions to your rally on Saturday, meaning we have to pivot away from women’s rights and towards men keeping their already secure jobs,” Leah mutters with a scowl.

“Those men are all for sure voters! I mean, come on, you think a single mother’s schedule is so concrete that she’ll be able to vote--”

“Close your mouth, Draco,” Hermione interrupts, pulling out a fresh piece of parchment. “Okay. Jobs.”

Pansy leaves shortly after, but Hermione stays till midnight to do some work.

When she finally Apparates home, Pansy’s asleep, door closed and all the lights out. 

\--

May comes and goes. June comes in full blast, and not much changes. Pansy seems to have let go of most of the anger she held for Hermione after that first day, most because Hermione passes all  the designated Pansy questions to Pansy without a fight and without hesitation.

They are flirty and happy in public, newspapers and media praising their names, polls positive, roaring crowds at rallies, and then Hermione gets home and Pansy goes into her room and shuts the door and Hermione doesn’t hear from her until the morning. At the office, Pansy’s just friendly enough to make the volunteers swoon and the interns write blog posts about how their love inspires, and then behind closed doors she’s as cold as she’s ever been. 

Pansy is volatile, Hermione comes to learn. Her mood changes by the minute, and Hermione, after careful observation, learns when to disappear and when to stay in her line of sight.

Nothing changes. Until.

\--

It’s 3am when Hermione feels a wand at her throat and shackles around her wrists. Sweat drips down her face, a sob disrupts her breaths. It’s 3am when green light erupts from said wand, and she realizes it’s not sweat dripping down her face, but blood. She feels it all again, on a sickening, cruel loop, until her throat’s raw from screaming and crying.

She’s dragged out of this loop by a shout, a slap that sends her cheek stinging. She surges up, kicking and hitting, trying to pull her body away from whatever’s got her.

“Get your shit together, Granger!” Comes a shrill, panicked voice. She hears it, latches onto it, hears it ringing in her ears. “Come  _ back _ , Granger. Jesus. Come back.”

She’s slapped again. 

That actually does work, surprisingly.

Murkily, distantly, Hermione tries to remember what her therapist said to do in these situations,  _ notice what is going on around you, center yourself in it _ , come back to the world. 

She notices a few things right off the bat-- it’s dark and raining outside, she’s in her bedroom, at her flat, and the clock reads 3am, and someone’s crouched in front of her, a hand twisted in her shirt.

Pansy. 

Pansy’s got a hand twisted in her shirt and a hand on the back of her neck, sure and solid, and she’s whispering things like  _ you need to calm down  _ and  _ none of it’s real  _ and  _ you’re old now, Granger, it’s over.  _

Hermione’s breath still comes in rapid, thick bursts, but she’s stopped screaming now, so there’s at least that. 

“Granger,” Pansy says firmly. “Inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale.”

Hermione follows her direction, inhaling and exhaling slowly, and soon feels the world coming back to order, tilting back into place.

They stare at each other for a long while, so close their features are indistinguishable.  _ Inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale… repeat.  _

Pansy’s hands are warm. The rain is picking up outside. There’s a light on in the hallway. Pansy’s in sweats and a T-shirt. It’s the most casual garb Hermione’s ever seen her in. Her copy of The Robber Bride is squashed on the floor. Her blankets are on the ground. 

“Do you want some tea?” Pansy asks after a while, expression unreadable in the dark.

“What?” Hermione says, pulling away. Pansy lets her go, sliding off the bed and standing herself. She flicks on a lamp, lighting up the room. Hermione looks at her, hair mussed from sleep and face strange without makeup. It’s a good strange, she decides.

“Tea, Granger,” she repeats.

“Um, yeah. Tea.”

“Okay.” Pansy leaves Hermione’s bedroom, turning on lights as she goes. Hermione, unsteady on her feet, follows, steps heavy on the wood floors. 

She slides into the stool she keeps near the kitchen counter, sweaty fingers staining the countertop.

She keeps breathing.

“What type?” Pansy asks. 

“Any type. I’m not picky.”

Pansy casts her a disdainful look, but doesn’t comment. After a while, she looks away, saying in a quiet voice, “Tea always helps with mine.”

“You get nightmares too?” Hermione asks, wondering if she’s still dreaming.

Pansy rolls her eyes. “I fought in the war just like you.” She pauses. “Even if I fought on the wrong side.”

Hermione lets the comment pass, unsure what to say.

“I really like what you’ve done with the guest bedroom,” she says, voice still hoarse, as she watches Pansy move through her kitchen like she’s known it her whole life.

Pansy snorts. “I did that a month ago.”

“Yeah, well, I just noticed last week.”

“It’s okay, you’re busy.”

“I didn’t ask for your forgiveness.”

Pansy glances at her, eyes narrowed. “So?”

Hermione doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“What was it about, your nightmare?” Pansy asks, completely nonchalant, like she’s asking about the weather.

“Oh, you know, just general war stuff. Parents dying, face getting ripped off, the works.”

Pansy smiles, an unusual reaction. “Clever, are you?”

“More like evasive.”

Pansy lets the water boil, laughing slightly. “I never noticed that about you at school, you know. Your wit.”

Hermione finds herself smiling, inexplicably. “Was that a compliment?”

“No.” Pansy cocks her head, leaning on the counter. “Well, maybe. It is very impressive how you snipe at Draco and Khoutan. Keeps them in line.”

“Like you don’t do the same.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. 

Hermione bites her lip, a slightly comfortable silence growing between them.

“You’re very good with the press. I’m not, you know that. But the media loves you. It’s really helping out the campaign.”

Pansy smiles smugly. “Was that a compliment, Granger?”

“God, it’s so weird you call me that,” Hermione mutters, wrinkling her nose. “If you want to be distant, you might as well call me Governor.”

“‘Governor’ just sounds really kinky.”

“Mm, yes, well the tabloids would love that.”

Pansy laughs, loud and uninhibited. “Oh, how they would eat it up!”

“Sh! You’re going to wake the neighbors.”   


Pansy arches an eyebrow. “Don’t tempt me.”

“ _ No-- _ ”

“ _ Kinky _ !” Pansy shouts at the top of her lungs. “Do you hear that, Mrs. Melman?  _ Kinky _ !”

Hermione continues shushing her, to no avail. But, to be fair, she can’t really tell what’s a shush and what’s laughter at this point.

After a minute or two, Pansy stops, nodding, like she’s extremely satisfied with herself. “Now  _ that _ is going to end up in the tabloids,” she tells Hermione with a wink.

“You’re ridiculous.”   


“Maybe I’ll do it at the office tomorrow,” Pansy murmurs with a feigned gasp.

She walks back to her room, leaving the water boiling on the stove.

Hermione watches her go.

\--

Hermione finished her tea in silence, fell back asleep, miraculously. When her alarm wakes her up, she barely gives a second thought to last night, expecting Pansy to be cold and distant again, the closeness of last night fleeting, like that morning back in May, but Pansy, surprisingly, says good morning and eats breakfast next to her, asking in a calm voice if she got any more sleep after her nightmare.

They walk into the office together, side by side, Pansy’s arm looped around Hermione’s like usual. Except, this time, when they shut themselves in Hermione’s office to go over today’s schedule, Pansy doesn’t pull away.

\--

“Merlin, Granger, can we stop somewhere and  _ eat _ something? I’m starving.”

“I thought we were being kinky now,” Hermione replies, wholly unsympathetic to Pansy’s plight.

Pansy nods. “Ah, that’s right. Forgive me.” She leans down, lips brushing Hermione’s ear as she says in a low, ridiculously intoxicating voice, “Madame Governor, can I please eat something? I’m fucking starving.”

Hermione laughs slightly, pushing Pansy away. “No. We have to get to the church and speak with the priest before the, uh, the thing starts.” Hermione cocks her head, thinking. “Do you call it mass if it  _ is _ Catholic, or isn’t?”

“It’s mass!” Leah supplies from behind them. “I think?”

“Call it a service,” Draco murmurs. “It’s innocuous enough.”

“Oh! There’s a bakery. Hermione,  _ please _ ?”

“So I was Granger, then Madame Governor, and now I’m Hermione? You’re really pulling out all the stops, aren’t you?”

“I'm hungry!” Pansy whines, turning and yanking Leah up to walk with the two of them. “Leah, please?”

Leah glances up from her phone, looking bored. “Just let her go, Hermione. If she’s quick and eats on the way, we should still be able to make it on time.” Leah checks her watch. “If there isn’t a line. And we run the last block.”

Pansy smirks, obviously satisfied with herself. Abruptly, she sprints off towards the bakery, speed unhindered by her massive heels.

“Grab me a scone!” Draco calls after her. When he doesn’t get a response, he turns back to Leah and Hermione with one eyebrow quirked. “Hey, Leah,” he says, voice dripping with something Hermione can’t place. “How’s  _ Ron _ ?”

Hermione gasps, latching onto Leah’s arm. “You’re texting Ron? And here I just thought you were doing your job!”

Leah scowls viciously at Draco. “Thanks for letting her know.”

“He finally got a Muggle phone?”

Leah blushes slightly, not meeting Hermione’s gaze. “Yeah. He gave me his number--”   


“It’s like you’re  _ teenagers _ !” Draco shouts, cackling.

Leah shoves him away with an indignant yell. “Not that you care, you’re so busy making fun of me, but we happen to have a date tonight.”

“Where?” Draco asks, interest obviously piqued. 

“I’m not telling you two! You crash all of my dates!”

Hermione scoffs. “Yeah, but this is  _ Ron _ . We won’t crash it! Just tell us where.”

“ _ No _ .”

Draco mutters something under his breath.

“Wh--  _ what _ was that?” Leah snaps. She looks close to shoving him again, but Pansy appears right at that moment, with a humongous chocolate muffin clutched in her hand.

All three of them stare at her, shocked into silence.

“What?” She asks through a mouthful of muffin.

“Are you five?” Draco asks disdainfully, scowling. “You couldn’t have gotten anything  _ neater _ ?”

“No, and for that, you aren’t getting your scone. Here, Granger, take Draco’s scone.”

“Ooh, thank you Pansy.”

Draco starts swearing, but Hermione tunes him out, looping her arm through Pansy’s and nibbling on her scone.

“This is quite good.”

“Draco, did you hear that? Granger says it’s quite good!”

“Fuck you!”

Hermione grins.

\--

Leah leaves at six. Hermione carefully tracks her movements, the way she touches up her hair and makeup before she leaves. Once Hermione’s assured she’s definitely gone, she sidles up next to Astoria.

“Astoria?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s Leah going on her date tonight?”

“She told me not to tell you.”

“We both know I’m going to get that information.”

“What do I get in return?”

Hermione’s eyes narrow as she thinks. “Hm… what do you want?”

“Friday off next week to go to my niece’s end-of-school play.”

“Granted. Where is she?”

“Three Broomsticks.”

“You aren’t serious.”

“Ron chose the place.”

“He chose a school bar on a Friday night? The two of them? At thirty years old?”

“He’s your best friend.”

Hermione groans.

“I don’t get a thank you?”

“Thank you, Astoria. Say hi to your niece for me.”

Hermione stands. She needs to get back to her flat and then all the way over to Hogsmeade before their date ends, meaning she has to haul ass.

She flits around the office, looking for Draco, only to find a note addressed to her, saying,  _ Go without me-- Healer’s appt.  _ Swearing, she drops the note. Does she still go? 

She could always ask Pansy.

Why not. What was the harm? There were really no downsides to it.

_ There are a lot of downsides to it,  _ she reminds herself. She chooses to ignore that.

She Apparates away, landing in her living room hard, nausea rolling through her. “Fuck,” she spits, doubling over in an effort to not vomit.   


“Merlin, Granger, what is it?” Pansy asks, waltzing out of her room just a little too casually.

“Ron and Leah are on a  _ date _ ,” Hermione manages, clutching her stomach.

“They’re on a date? Where?”

“Hogsmeade.” Hermione pauses, straightening, wondering if this was too juvenile for heiress Pansy Parkinson. “Draco and I, er, we like to crash Leah’s dates, sometimes. Draco can’t go, so--”

“Give me two seconds to get changed.”

Pansy disappears back into her room.

Hermione’s eyes stick on the closed door, warm surprise coiling in her stomach.

\--

“This is  _ not _ as much fun as you made it sound.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, sipping her water. “I can’t help but agree. Usually she’s so bored with the guy she notices Draco and me right away. But, ugh, look-- look how  _ enamored _ she is with Ron.”

“How one could be enamored with a redhead is beyond me.”

“I feel like I should defend Ron now.”

Pansy waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t need a lecture.”

Hermione smiles slightly, looking back at Leah and Ron’s table near the bar. Although she judged Ron at first for his seemingly childish restaurant choice, she can’t help notice how comfortable they both look, recognizable faces disguised by the hustle and bustle around them. And, selfishly, it’s a good choice for Pansy and her, because everyone’s so drunk no one has noticed their presence yet.

Pansy sighs loudly, dramatically.

Hermione’s eyes cut to her. “Can I help you?”

“I think I miss dating,” Pansy says wistfully, sipping her wine.

Hermione snorts. “I certainly don’t.” 

Pansy finally looks at her, a dangerous, curious look on her face. “Who ruined you, Granger?”

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Did some sweet-talking gal mess you up?”

“What the fuck-- ‘sweet talking gal’?”

“Was it the one you were talking about when I first got here? Um… she was rich, I remember that, Draco was gabbing about your dress that she got you… um, Melanie? Mira? Something with an ‘m’. It was definitely an ‘m’ name.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “I’m not talking about this with you--”

“You already said that, and I didn’t accept it.”

“You aren’t serious--”

“Melissa!” Pansy shrieks triumphantly, attracting the attention of a few drunken teenagers with her shout.

Hermione groans, hiding her face in her hands. “Well, if that didn’t get Leah’s attention--”

“What the  _ fuck _ are you doing here?”

Hermione resists the urge to groan again.

“Did Astoria crack?”

She meets Leah’s murderous gaze. “Astoria did not crack. But, er, on a _completely_ unrelated note, she has next Friday off.”

Hermione offers a smile.

“Don’t flash your fucking politician’s smile at me,” Leah spits.

“How’s your date with Ron?” Pansy asks, waggling her eyebrows. “Are you putting out?”

“Jesus, Pansy,” Hermione mutters.

“The fuck’s wrong with you?”

Pansy raises her hands, eyes widening. “I’m just asking! God, tough crowd.”

“I-- why are you here? Why are you  _ here _ ?” Leah snaps, rubbing her forehead. “I work all day for you, and I finally get a moment off, and you’re here--”

“Well, I didn’t know you were so sick of me! Your  _ best friend _ since law school!”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Hermione’s eyes narrow. “Didn’t you?”

“Jesus, who needs cinema when you got this?” Pansy whispers. 

The comment destroys any lingering tension and, apparently, Leah’s patience, because she stomps away, sliding back into her seat across from Ron with a clearly strained smile.

Pansy doesn’t let a second pass before she’s raising her eyebrows, fixing Hermione with an intense look. “So.  _ Melissa _ .”

“I told you I don’t want to talk about it,” Hermione mutters with a scowl.

“That bad, huh?”

“I said--”

“I’ll tell you a bad relationship story, oh boy. Okay, so, her name was Jamie, and she seemed okay, but after we had hooked up a couple times, she revealed she had an Asian fetish, and also an STD.”

Hermione chokes on her drink, barely managing to cover her mouth with a napkin before her spit sprays all over the table. “ _ Jesus-- _ ”

“It was one of those easy ones to get rid of, thankfully, but still. I’d rather not deal with it.”

“Um, well, yeah,  _ obviously _ .”

“Now your turn.”

“Nice try. No.”

“Please? Pretty, pretty please? I told you about my experience of getting an STD from a racist!”

“I didn’t ask to hear that story!”

Pansy tips her head to the side, tapping her chin. “Did she cheat on you? Kick you out of your shared apartment? Lie to her parents about you? Was she a humongous slob? Did  _ you _ get an STD from a racist, too? That’d be a coincidence.”

“Jesus, Pansy, where do you get all of these ideas?”

“‘Ideas’? Try real life experience.”

“This has  _ all _ happened to you?”

“I  _ just _ told you the STD story. Keep up.”

“B-- but you’ve been cheated on?”

“How do you think she got the STD to pass onto me? Aren’t you supposed to be smart?”

Hermione buries her head in her hands again. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I’ve been around, Granger. Nothing is too weird for me.”

“It’s not weird, it’s just… like…” Hermione trails off, unsure of what to say next.

“Toxic?”

Hermione meets Pansy’s gaze. “That’s one word for it. E-- I mean, everything was some kind of sick game to her.” 

Pansy’s eyes are locked on hers, eyelashes casting shadows on her face, eyebrows furrowed just the slightest bit. Hermione has the uncomfortable realization that she has Pansy’s full, undivided attention. 

She’s never had that before. 

She ignores how that makes her stomach flutter.

Hermione sips her water. “And that’s all I have to say on the matter.”

Pansy’s expression is unreadable. Then, quite suddenly, “I think Ron just said something stupid.”

Hermione turns just in time to see Leah stand, scowling, and march out of the bar. Ron clumsily makes his way after her, face red.

“What do you think it was?”

Hermione shrugs, turning back around. “She’s really sensitive about her hair, and he still hasn’t realized it.”

“Her hair? What’s wrong with it?”

Hermione shrugs. “Who the hell knows.”

Pansy sighs dramatically, again. “You wanna go?”

“Yeah.”

They stand, leaving their glasses, Pansy offering her arm to Hermione. Rolling her eyes but knowing some form of camera is probably on them, Hermione takes it, leaning into Pansy’s side. They push out of the door, surprising heat hitting them as they walk along the road, past all the businesses.

Eyes lingering on Honeydukes, remembering her first time there with Ron, she asks in a quiet voice, “Which was your favorite place to go to? When we were at Hogwarts, I mean.”

Pansy shrugs. “I always preferred Diagon Alley.”

“Still.”

Pansy sighs, cocking her head. “If I had to choose… Honeydukes is always great. But my mum knew the owner of Tomes and Scrolls personally, so I got free books, not that I took advantage of it much.”

“Oh, you wound me.”

Pansy laughs, bumping Hermione’s hip with hers. “Because I didn’t load up my bags with books and lug them home?”

“You joke, but that’s exactly what I would have done.”

Pansy’s response is cut off by Hermione’s comically loud gasp. She doesn’t mean to gasp, but it rips out of her in a particularly ridiculous fashion when they round the corner and come face to face with Leah and Ron, who are snogging against a wall.

Her gasp shocks the two of them out of their bubble. Ron flushes, stammering out an apology, while Leah groans, hiding her face in her hands.

“Well, well, well…” Pansy drawls, a barely suppressed grin on her face. “Isn’t this cute.”

“Shut the  _ fuck _ up, Parkinson,” Leah snaps, nudging Ron away. Ron goes, pointedly avoiding Hermione’s gaze. 

Ron hadn’t contacted her when the news broke. Not a call, text, or letter. She knew it was most likely just because he needed time to process. You know, time to process the information that she  had been lying to him for ten years. Harry had been the same way. Both left reeling from the news, both stuck with processing.

So she tracks the way his eyes stick, for barely a second, on their intertwined arms, on Pansy’s hand brushing hers. The familiarity between them, the smiles they wore before everything was interrupted. 

“We should go,” she murmurs to Pansy, pulling her away before she can object.

Surprisingly, though, she doesn’t object. And after a block, she says, in a low voice, “I haven’t properly talked to Blaise since the news broke.” She pauses, a heavy, pregnant pause. “He was devastated.”

Hermione blinks, face heating at the sudden vulnerability. After a moment’s consideration, she responds, “Harry kept asking me why I didn’t trust him enough to tell him. Why Draco didn’t trust him  enough to tell him.”

“Ginny’s gotten so stressed.”

“Ron hasn’t said a word to me. We used to speak every day.”

Each admission is like cleaving out the most intimate parts of herself and pressing the strands into Pansy’s palm, trusting her with them, hoping she does something with it, hoping she doesn’t drop them on the pavement.

“At least we have each other.”

Hermione, startlingly, feels tears prick at her eyes. 

She exhales slowly, leaning just the slightest bit into Pansy.

Pansy’s eyes close.

Hermione guides her through the streets without another word.

\--

The drama of the other day is promptly forgotten when Hermione wakes up to a ringing phone and the viral headline,  _ GRANGER FOR MINISTER STAFFER’S PORNOGRAPHIC EMAILS ROCK OTHERWISE STABLE CAMPAIGN. _

Pansy, who’s already read the article and had quite a lot of fun with it, regales Hermione during breakfast.

“Him and his girlfriend are quite the dirty pair, wink wink, if you know what I mean, and such and such. Apparently, they’re into bondage and whi--”

“Stop it. Stop it right now. This is a  _ disaster _ .”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Please. It’s a blip.”

“This is going to bring up questions about my personal judgement, my campaign security-- I mean, the conservatives are going to have a  _ field day  _ with this, especially because they’re so prudish about sex--”

“You know, I, myself, have to question your judgement. Hiring a guy who’s so stupid that he willingly uses the campaign email server to exchange dirty messages?” Pansy raises her eyebrows. “Yikes.”

Hermione scowls, waving her off and texting Leah and Draco to fire the guy as soon as humanly possible. 

A moment later, she gets a notification.  _ He’s finished. Wink wink,  _ Draco texts.

“Jesus, you and Draco are one and the same,” she mutters. 

Pansy nods absentmindedly. “Best friends since nappies, we are.”

Hermione’s eyes narrow. “You two fight a lot for ‘best friends since nappies’.”

“That’s exactly why we fight,” Pansy explains in a bored tone, like she’s talking to a child. “We know each other too well.”

“Doesn’t that get exhausting?”

“Listen, if he needs to scream at me so he doesn’t go home and ruin his marriage, I’ll oblige.”

Hermione doesn’t reply, mulling Pansy’s words over in her head.

“So… you two fight and scream at each other… so you don’t fight and scream at other people?” Hermione asks, cocking her head. “Is that healthy?”

Pansy shrugs, sipping her tea. “Who knows. All I know is that when you’re brought up like we are, so very few understand…  _ it _ .”

“‘It’?”

Pansy waves her hands around, like she’s explaining a complicated scientific concept. “All of it, like, you know, the suppressing feelings and properness and constant screaming-- especially during  the war, everything felt like a trap. Every single thing is used against you, is  _ pitted _ against you. There’s no one there for you, you know.” She purses her lips. “It’s a lot like politics that way.”

“It’s its own kind of politics,” Hermione supplies, heart thudding when a shadow passes over Pansy’s face.

“So Draco and I-- Blaise too-- we found each other, you know, people we could  _ trust _ . Hang on to. So even after you…” Her jaw visibly clenches. “Even after you do such unspeakable things, even after you think no one will ever understand or love you…” Her eyebrows furrow, silence hanging between them. Hermione, so unnerved by the vulnerability, doesn’t say a word, too scared to shatter the moment.

After an unbearably long minute, Pansy shakes her head. 

“I don’t think Harry understands it. I don’t think he can. Not his fault, of course. It’s just… we found each other, in the worst situation. We didn’t let each other go. We  _ don’t _ let each other go. Even when we piss each other off to no end and have screaming matches in front of beloved colleagues.”

Pansy sips her tea.

Hermione watches her inhale, exhale. “So why come back?” She asks. “Why tell this lie that threatens to break that trust?” And she shouldn’t ask it, because it’s none of her business and will probably do more harm than good. But she can’t help but think of the pain on Pansy’s face yesterday as they walked home trading those secrets, as they traded those pieces of pain. She can’t imagine that her potential career as Minister of Magic is more important to Pansy than the relationships she just described.

To her surprise, Pansy just shrugs. “There are things bigger than me at stake.”

“Like your charities?”

Pansy nods. “And you winning. That opponent of yours… I don’t trust him. And we both know you wouldn’t have a chance in hell of beating him if it weren’t for me.” Hermione smiles, but doesn’t bother disputing it. Pansy continues, waving a hand, “Besides, Blaise will get over this. Ron and Harry will get over this. They’ll find out the truth one day.”

Hermione heaves out a sigh. “I liked this better when we were talking about that slutty intern.”

“Oh no no no, Madame Governor, slutty  _ aide _ . He was a paid member of your staff.” She points at the newspaper. “Which this article points out about thirty times.”

Hermione groans. “The office is going to be a mess.”

Pansy stands, gesturing at her watch. “8:29, Madame Governor.”

Hermione stands with her, threading their fingers together. Pansy starts to step towards the Floo, but Hermione holds her back. “Pansy…”   


Pansy’s eyebrows fly up. “Are you firing me too?”

Hermione laughs breathily, shaking her head. “No. I, uh… I know I don’t understand  _ it _ , but I want you to know how nice it’s been having you around lately. It’s, and I really do mean this, but it’s immensely comforting. I, er, actually like it. Quite a lot.”

Pansy’s face undergoes a series of changes, from disbelief to a slight smile; barely a laugh, lip curling as if disgusted, and then settling in an unreadable expression. “Granger… it’s nice having you around too.”

Hermione nods, pulling away, slightly disappointed in herself, maybe even a little disappointed in Pansy for the meager response, for the flush spreading over her cheeks. 

“Let’s go.”

\--

The office is, in fact, a mess. Phones are ringing, reporters are showing up unannounced, all that shit. Personally, Hermione thinks it’s a complete overreaction to what actually happened, she thinks they should be focusing on why their emails got hacked in the first place, but she can’t say anything. As Draco urged when she came through the Floo this morning,  _ just play the game. _

She has to meet with a reporter for an official statement in a couple of minutes but, other than that, Niall is handling all the press ( _ as is his job _ , Leah had muttered), so Hermione is getting caught up on some bills that landed on her desk, some required shite that O’Don pushed they go over at the Governors meeting next week.

Pansy, who was kicked out of the main area for answering phones and not giving the official statement (her statement was more along the lines of,  _ they fucked, get over it _ ) is sitting to Hermione’s left, doing whatever bored people do in her situation.

“Hey, Granger.”

Hermione sighs, realizing that bored people in her situation just try to bother other people, and tears her attention away from her work to look at Pansy. “Yeah?”

Pansy, sitting on the edge of her chair, is looking at her in a way that abruptly makes her lose her breath. Shockingly so, in fact. 

“Kiss me.”

Hermione laughs, startlingly, morphing into a shocked cough, until Pansy lays a hand on her arm, murmuring  _ Granger? _ in a concerned tone.

“I’m sorry,  _ what _ ?” She finally manages.

“Kiss me.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Pansy--”

“Why so many questions? Just kiss me.”

Terror runs through Hermione’s stomach as Pansy laces their hands together, thumb lazily rubbing the back of her hand, other hand coming up to rest at the base of her neck.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asks in a low voice, Pansy leaning closer, breath hitching as she does so.

“Go with it.”

Any reply she has dies in her throat as Pansy’s lips touch hers. 

Delicately. Barely brushing. 

It shouldn’t make Hermione’s heart nearly explode in her chest and her palms start sweating and  _ especially _ shouldn’t make her lean in, sighing into Pansy’s mouth, grip tightening on her hand.

It shouldn’t make her believe it’s real.

Pansy pulls away rather abruptly, hands sliding out of Hermione’s. She points to the cracked open doorway, where the reporter Hermione’s about to meet with is unashamedly recording them.

Yelping, Hermione flicks her wand, the door slamming shut as she does so. Reinforcing her Silencing charm over the room, she whirls around on Pansy. “Why didn’t you  _ tell _ me?”

“What? You did great!”

“You could have given me a fucking  _ warning _ that someone was recording us-- what if I had said something?”

“But you didn’t. Instead, we did something headline-worthy. Something that will knock that slutty aide right out of the papers.”

Hermione scoffs, standing quickly, shoving her chair back into the wall. “I cannot believe you.”

“Wh-- are you  _ angry _ at me?”

“Yeah! A little bit!”

“ _ Why _ ?”

“Because I deserve a fucking warning if we’re going to do that again--”

“You want to do it again?” Pansy asks, voice low and dangerous, eyes glittering.

Hermione’s nostrils flare. “Once again, I cannot  _ believe _ you. I’m going to go meet with that perv of a reporter, okay? Don’t get yourself into any fucking trouble.”

She marches out of the room, nearly smacking right into said pervy reporter. Draco’s hovering behind him, looking like he wants to punch him in the face.

“You need a statement?” Hermione asks tersely, slightly satisfied when the reporter’s face flushes. 

“Madame Governor, I’d like to apologize--”

“Save it,” Draco snaps. “Let’s get this over with.”

Hermione nods, murmuring her agreement, and strides away, Draco at her side, the reporter hurrying to follow.

She tries to ignore how her lips are still buzzing.

Fucking Pansy.

\--

Another month passes.

A month of fake flirting and talking over hurried meals and crowds screaming their names at rallies. It passes in a blur of stress and hating the twisted headlines and downing energy potions Leah and Draco hand her without a second thought.

A month of finally finishing her book and telling Pansy she swears by Margaret Atwood’s interpretation of the male gaze and Pansy just laughing and turning away. A month of hating when Pansy gets too close but hating it even more when Pansy’s far away.

She visits Ron, who’s finally forgiven her, and meets Harry for coffee (and they don’t talk about it). Eloise and Ginny come to visit at the office and they all laugh and talk about everything but the thing they don’t want to talk about, and Ginny gravely tells Pansy she needs to call Blaise.

Pansy does not call Blaise.

Hermione pulls ahead in the polls. They have her two points in front of Perry, who has recently launched a series of vicious, homophobic attack ads that have stressed her out to such a degree that  Pansy doesn’t let her watch TV anymore. 

_ It’s not good for you. _

And life goes on.

A month passes.

\--

The Governor’s Ball is tonight. A lavish party celebrating the end of the governing term. Hermione and her colleagues will have a three week recess, and be back in September with a lot to do. Usually, Hermione works through the recess, visiting constituents and sponsoring bills, but this year, she has a schedule packed with campaigning. And after that, Ginny’s due to have the baby.

_ I go to this?  _ Pansy asked when Leah told her last week.

_ Yeah. All significant others go,  _ Hermione had informed her.

_ Ooh, well, look at me. Fancy schmancy. _

_ Haven’t you been to fancier galas? _ _   
_

_ Of course I have. _

Hermione had laughed, shaken her head.  _ There’s a specific etiquette, you know. And dress code.  _

_ Please. I’ll be able to deal with it. _

_ I’m sure you will.  _

Pansy had made it very clear she was going to go all out outfit-wise, but Hermione’s still slightly taken aback when, two hours before the ball officially starts, she marches into the office with her hair shining, makeup perfectly done, and a tight fitting, emerald green suit on. The pants taper off at the ankles, revealing bright white stiletto heels, and her suit jacket is hanging open, revealing a velvet, white blouse.

Hermione stares.

Pansy notices her staring.

“Is there a stain on me, Granger?”

Hermione shakes her head. “Of course not.” 

And she looks away.

Pansy slides into the seat across from her. “What are  _ you _ wearing?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Draco and Leah picked something out ages ago.”

“Suit? Dress? Bikini?”

Hermione makes a face. “You’re very funny.”

“I like to think I am.”

“I’m not sure whether it’s a suit or dress. Usually they put me in a suit, but a dress might poll better, etc., etc. It depends.”

Pansy wrinkles her nose, leaning back in her chair. “Your existence sounds torturous.”

“It’s your existence, too, darling.”

Pansy rolls her eyes and looks away. Hermione must be imagining the flush rising in her cheeks.

“Hermione!  _ Hermione _ !” She turns just as Draco rushes into her office, a garment bag floating behind him. “I have your dress!”

She looks pointedly at Pansy. “Ah, yes, my  _ dress _ .” She blinks. “W-- wait, a  _ dress _ ? I’ve never worn a dress to the gala before.”

“You’re campaigning this year. You have to play the g--”

“Jesus, yes, the game, I know.”

Draco scowls, pushing the garment bag towards her. “The braider is coming in ten, we want to have you in the dress before then. The makeup woman is coming in thirty.”

Hermione flicks her wand, drawing her curtains shut. Unzipping the bag, she waves Pansy and Draco out. “Privacy please?” 

Draco and Pansy file out without another word, a surprise all by itself. The second surprise comes when the garment bag falls away, revealing a shockingly beautiful dress. 

Eyebrows rising, she brushes her fingers over the pale blue gown. It’s made from a light, thin fabric that falls all the way to the floor. She briefly wonders if she’s tall enough for the dress, and the worry only subsides when she checks the measurements and sees that it will not, in fact, make her trip and break her teeth on the marble floors. She flicks her wand, rotating the dress, letting out a low whistle when she sees the off the shoulder neckline slope into an elegant, tulle skirt, leaving her back completely bare. She smooths out the skirt, examining the delicate outer layer. On closer examination, her mouth falls open. She doesn’t know whether to kill Draco or applaud his genius for, on the bottom edge of the skirt, there’s a long line of small, interwoven, white pansies.

Hanging beside the gown are some earrings and a pair of silvery, glittering flats.  _ No heels!  _ She had instructed over and over again. Seems like Draco had finally taken the hint. 

Hermione dresses quickly, the gown hanging off of her in a way that makes her stomach flutter, just in time for hair and makeup to arrive. They work silently while Leah, who snuck in with them, quizzes Hermione on Governors’ names, Governor’s spouses’ names, who they’re bankrolled by, demographics of their districts, and a hundred other things that she has to know.

“Okay, twenty minutes until we need to leave,” Leah murmurs, pointedly looking at the two women buzzing around Hermione’s head. They don’t respond, so Leah clears her throat.

“Okay, Merlin, I’m done!” The makeup stylist snaps after Leah clears her throat for a third time, the hairdresser echoing the remark a moment later. 

Leah shoves them out, leaving the door hanging open. Hermione can faintly hear them discussing payment, signing NDAs, the whole rigamarole, and thinks about Pansy’s words just an hour ago.  _ Your existence sounds torturous.  _

“Maybe it is,” she mutters to herself as she stands. Her head aching from all the sitting in her chair, being poked and prodded at, she fluffs her skirt, flipping her thick braids out of her face. She’s just about to leave her office when Pansy marches in, yelling about something. 

“I’ve been sitting around, looking brilliant, for  _ far too long _ \--” She stops abruptly, eyes widening when she sees Hermione. 

“Hello to you too,” Hermione prompts, an odd mixture of anticipation and discomfort mingling in her as Pansy sweeps her eyes up and down her body.

“You-- you look  _ good _ ,” Pansy says in a choked voice a moment later.

Hermione scowls. “You don’t have to look so shocked.”

“I-- well, you clean up nice, that’s all I’m saying!”

“Once again, you don’t have to look so shocked!” She pushes past Pansy and out into the hallway. “Are we ready to go?” 

Draco turns at her voice, eyes widening and jaw going slack when he sees her. “ _ Jesus _ , Hermione.”

“Wh--what?” Hermione twists slightly. She flushes, palms starting to sweat when she notices everyone staring at her. “ _ What _ ?”

“Like I said,” Pansy murmurs, leaning down so her lips are brushing Hermione’s ear. “You look good.”

Hermione allows her to stay that close for a moment longer than she usually would, overwhelmed by the flowers woven into the dress and the woman next to her and all the eyes on her. She allows her to stay that close, with her lips on her ear and hand hovering over her bare skin, then shoves her away.

Pansy cackles as she stumbles away, pleased with herself. “Are we going now?”

\--

The Governor’s Ball is boring and long, just like all the other years. Hermione makes small talk and avoids Perry and lets Pansy lead during the dances. She eats tiny portions of food with ridiculous names and tries not to notice Pansy staring at her and gets little snippets of advice and information from Leah and Draco, who are shoved into a corner with all the rest of the staffers.

Now, after five hours, the night’s beginning to wind down, and Hermione’s contemplating a quick, rushed exit as the musicians ready for the final song, a final song that has nothing to do with her.  Of all her years doing the Governor’s Ball, she’s never been involved in this part, only watching, waiting for it to be over. Of course, she thinks one thing, and Pansy thinks the other.

“You ready?” Pansy asks, looping an arm through hers, tugging her towards the dance floor.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asks in a low voice, tugging back, tugging away, as the lights dim and the other Governors and their spouses move onto the floor. Move onto the floor for the traditional last dance. The  _ spousal _ dance. A celebration in love in the face of career pressures and all that absolute shite. 

Pansy places a hand on her back,  _ low _ on her back,  _ way _ too low on her back, which distracts Hermione enough that Pansy’s actually able to get her onto the floor.

“I’m dancing. With you.”

“It’s the _ spousal dance _ .”

“So?”

Pansy twirls her informally as the musicians pluck the beginning of the song, smiling slightly.

“We aren’t spouses, if you’ve forgotten,” Hermione says. Pansy rolls her eyes, pulling her closer, settling one hand around her waist, thumb and forefinger pinching the fabric of her skirt, and cupping Hermione’s hand with the other, raising their clasped hands up in the traditional pose.

“We’re as good as spouses. Besides, it’s unfair they get a whole dance. Most of these people don’t even like each other. Just sticking in it for the politics.”

“You do realize the irony of what you’re saying, right?”

The song officially starts, and, all in unison, the wives step away from the husband, bowing their heads in a bullshit dance move some old white guy came up with, the husband twirling them a beat  later.

Hermione steps away too, pointedly not bowing her head, not bothering to conceal her eye roll when Pansy twirls her. 

“Are you not enjoying yourself, darling?”

Hermione scoffs, skirts swirling around her in a rather satisfying way when she spins into Pansy. In this move, the husband’s hands are supposed to be firmly placed on their wife's waist, chaste and  decent, but of course, Pansy has to make headlines, and Hermione tries not to focus on how low her hands are.

“We’re going to be accused of defiling the traditional spousal dance,” Hermione murmurs, but the song is continuing and she’s quickly being dipped and spun away, into the arms of Governor MacGowan.

“Governor Granger,” he greets in his thick, Scottish accent. “Didn’t think I’d see you out here tonight.”

“I wasn’t aware I’d be out here tonight,” she replies airily, more focused on the show going on just behind MacGowan. Pansy and Governor O’Don’s wife have been paired up, Pansy looking like she’s about to burst into hysterics and Lara O’Don looking like she’s about to faint. “Do you think Lara will be okay?”

Governor MacGowan twists, grinning when he sees Pansy and O’Don’s wife together. “Lara will make a big stink, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, Pansy will love that.”

Governor MacGowan lets out a big, booming laugh, attracting the attention of several nearby. A moment later, the music swells, signaling the second partner change.

“I hope to see you on the floor again next year, Governor,” he says.

She barely has time to think about  _ that _ before she’s being passed again, this time into Governor Barr’s arms.

She doesn’t bother smiling at him, nor him at her, mostly because they’re both vividly aware of the other’s opinion of them, namely that Barr thinks Hermione’s a loud, stupid bitch and Hermione thinks he’s an old, disgusting bigot. 

So they’re really the ideal partnership.

The next few beats pass in terse silence, until the music swells and, with a dismissive grunt, she’s being passed away again. 

Back into Pansy’s arms.

“I’m like some kind of toy, being passed amongst all these old men,” she whispers to Pansy, who just grins.

“Well, I’m having the best time. Lara O’Don couldn’t even say a word to me she was so upset, and Governor Rooney said she was, and I quote,  _ so glad to see me here _ .”

Hermione smiles, moving back two steps to the music, forwards three steps, and she’s so close to Pansy, heads almost tilted against each other, and it’s hot and wonderfully overwhelming and she’s squeezing Pansy’s hand as she’s spun again. 

“We should get something to eat after this.”

Hermione nods, trying to focus as the trickiest part of the dance comes up. “That Chinese place you like is only two blocks away.”

“It’s a date then.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Flirt.”

Pansy just grins. “You want to switch places for this next part?”

“You’re serious?”

“Why not? It’s certainly a headline grabber.”

Traditionally, the wife, supported only by her husband’s hand on her back, drops into some kind of dramatic dip, arms poised above her head. The husband, after the appropriate amount of beats and using his other hand, grabs the poised arms and pulls the wife up that way, ending in a twirl and another, fully supported, dip. By far the most ridiculous part of the dance, most couples opt out of it, either because of age or fitness or just not wanting to appear incompetent in front of so many cameras.

“We’ll just triple step and switch positions,” Pansy says. “Can you manage it?”

Hermione sighs, acquiescing. “I can do it. Trust me.” She doesn’t even have to ask Pansy if  _ she _ can do it, knowing that years and years of her purebred upbringing led to  _ this _ part of  _ this _ dance.

The music swells and, so quickly Hermione can barely believe it’s happening, they spin around each other, switching positions. Hermione cements a hand on Pansy’s back, lowering her other, straightening just as Pansy drops, arms out, fingers splayed just so. Her left leg even comes up, and Hermione can’t help her grin at just the sheer drama of it all. 

She counts out three beats and then, elegant as all hell, grabs Pansy’s hand with her free one, pulling her up, twirling her perfectly in time, and dipping her in the opposite direction so far back the crown of her head almost brushes the marble floors.

The song ends, polite clapping ensuing. A quick glance round has Hermione realizing that she and Pansy were the only ones to attempt the big finish, something that makes her want to laugh and scream at the same time.

They stay in the dip for a moment longer, both panting, until Hermione draws herself up, Pansy following.

“See? Easy?” Pansy says, a bit breathlessly.

Hermione grins, shaking her head. “You amaze me sometimes, you know.”

Pansy smiles then, a shocking, vulnerable,  _ real _ smile, that shatters any semblance of control Hermione thought she had. Her hand drifts down along Hermione’s bare arm, lacing their fingers together. “There are pansies on your dress,” she says in a low voice.

“You just noticed?”

“Yeah.”

And for just a moment, Hermione wants to lean in. Captivated by the small tilt of her lips and the rare speechlessness, the terrifying vulnerability of a moment ago, their hands already clasped together. Hermione wants to lean in.

“You want to get Chinese now?”

Hermione snaps out of her stupor, embarrassing heat rushing to her cheeks. 

“Yeah. Of course.”

Pansy’s hand slides out of hers as she delves back into the crowd, waving at Hermione to follow.

Hermione does.

\--

The next morning, Draco owls the Daily Prophet directly to Hermione’s flat.

Splashed across the front page is the headline,  _ GOV GRANGER AND PARAMOUR PANSY PARKINSON SHINE AT GOV’S BALL. _

Underneath, dominating the entire rest of the page, is possibly the most extraordinary photo Hermione’s ever seen. It’s a still photo, unusual for the Daily Prophet, and shows the final moments of the spousal dance, the big moment that only Pansy and Hermione had pulled off.

Hermione is standing straight up, right hand supporting Pansy and left hand floating at her side. Pansy, posed beneath her, is the pinnacle of elegance and drama, with her head tipped back and fingers and arms splayed perfectly, leg straight out, balancing on one pointy stiletto. Pansy’s eyes are closed, but Hermione’s grinning, eyes stuck on Pansy’s like she’s her life.

Her fingers drift over the picture, at how Pansy’s hair hangs, how the light hits her dress, how they’re the center of the shot, every other visible couple behind them just standing there, watching. Like  _ they’re _ the show, the centerpiece, the great beauty in the room.

Over and over and over again, she goes back to the great betrayer, the thing in the picture that, despite everything else, jumps out. 

The look in her eyes that screams  _ I love this woman!  _ and screams it unashamedly.

Hermione turns the newspaper over, hiding it from view.

God. She’s so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Ch.4 is pretty rough at the moment, so it might be a bit before I upload again. While you wait, you can always check out my other works <3


	4. Assuredly Glowing Commendations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What? What are you talking about?”
> 
> Draco sighs, shaking his head. “I’m saying that if you want to win this campaign, you have to be in a relationship.”
> 
> “Well, I’m not in a relationship,” Hermione snaps. “This entire discussion is wasting time, okay? We just have to find another angle. Maybe focusing on my political record--”
> 
> “I have someone. Someone who’s willing to help you out.”
> 
> Hermione pauses. Even Ginny’s gaze snaps up from her phone. 
> 
> “Say that again?”
> 
> “Pansy Parkinson. From school. She’s been living in Paris for the past couple years, doing charity work and dabbling in local politics. She’s willing to pose as your very serious girlfriend until the end of the campaign.” Draco waves his hand around. “For something in return, of course.”
> 
> “No-- absolutely not!” Hermione says sharply. “We can’t do that!”
> 
> Draco cocks his head. “Can’t we, though?”  
> \---  
> Hermione’s on track to become the youngest Minister of Magic in history. There’s just one issue-- the polls hate her. Well, the polls hate her gayness, specifically. When a solution is presented that could fix everything, who’s she to decline?

Pansy has probably never had a busier three weeks in her life. The very moment the Governor’s ball ended and the Governor’s recess started, she and the  _ Granger for Minister  _ campaign had been darting all across the continent, campaigning and campaigning and campaigning. Endless shaking of hands, shittily translating languages, and begging Draco for a day off she was never going to get.

They had been so busy, Pansy hadn’t even seen the assuredly glowing commendations from their perfectly executed dance moves at the Governor’s ball. No one had given her a fucking newspaper!

_ You don’t need one,  _ Hermione had said.  _ It’s all the same stuff. Squeal, their love inspires, blah.  _ And then she had looked away a little too quickly, which made Pansy think she was lying. But then Niall had said the exact same thing, and so had everyone else she asked. So she dropped it. 

(More like she was  _ forced _ to drop it because she had no fucking energy to pursue it because of all this goddamn campaigning.)

“Let’s  _ go _ !” Comes a sharp, grating voice. Pansy turns, scowling, towards Emmett Mays, the campaign taskmaster. Hired just for weeks like this, when if they didn’t have someone specifically dedicated to yelling at them, they would be late for everything.

Pansy  _ hates _ Mays. Not only is he shrill and rude, but he’s also a self proclaimed aspiring singer/songwriter, meaning Pansy has to listen to him record his bullshit songs all night. And he’s  _ not _ good. It would be one thing if he was decent, but he isn’t, okay? He’s fucking  _ awful _ . So she’s kept up all night by him whining about his ex-girlfriend, then bossed around all day by his screeching.

But alas. They’re in Antwerp, it’s the last day of the campaigning spree (finally) and tomorrow will be the first Monday of September. Hermione will dive straight into her work with three back-to-back meetings with various Governors, and Pansy will wait at the campaign office, helping Niall with his press statements.   
Next Friday, they’ll travel to Paris for the charity event Pansy organized back in May. They’ll stay until Saturday, then fly back to London.

Pansy’s exhausted.

“We have twenty minutes until we have to be at the rally!” Mays snaps. “And the location’s twenty five minutes away!”

“Do you ever get tired of the sound of your own voice?” Pansy mutters under her breath, hiking her bag further up on her shoulder.   


“Be nice, Pansy,” Hermione instructs with a smirk, eyes on her phone.

“What are you looking at?” Pansy asks, resting her chin on Hermione’s shoulder, watching as she types out a quick message to Niall, who’s back in London.

Hermione stiffens but doesn’t make any move to push Pansy away. “Apparently our social media manager is making some waves.”

“Good waves or bad waves?”

“Depends on who you ask. We’re polling brilliantly with young voters, not so great with older voters.”

“Aren’t all those old fucks racist anyway?”

Hermione casts a quick look around, most likely to make sure there are no reporters nearby. After a moment, she leans back, whispering in Pansy’s ear, “Yes, all of those old fucks are racist anyway.”

Pansy falls into her, cackling. She’s about to respond with something equally witty, but is cut off by Mays’ screech.

“ _ On the bus! _ ”

“Jesus,” Hermione mutters, nudging Pansy away. “I can’t believe I pay him just to yell.”

“Such a shameful use of money.”

They fall into line with Draco and Leah, filing onto the bus, Hermione’s personal security team surrounding them.

Pansy, still incredibly unnerved by the presence of the security team, something used only for on-the-move campaigning, climbs the steps quickly. The campaign team, a group of about five aides and, depending on the day, 2-10 volunteers, fall silent as she and Hermione walk by. Pansy ignores them, as usual.

She settles with Hermione, Draco, and Khoutan at the back of the bus, pulling out her phone. She needs to call Niall and talk to him about an article that came out about her today in Witch Weekly. It was horribly fucking rude, and sexist too--

A flash catches her eye.

One of the volunteers just took a photo of her itinerary. 

Pansy’s eyes narrow.

Why the fuck does she need a  _ photo _ ? She has the damn thing to look at in her hands.

She scrutinizes the girl and her peers, something gnawing at her. They all look unsettlingly familiar, like Pansy’s seen them somewhere she didn’t want to.

Hermione, Draco, and Khoutan don’t notice her conflict, immersed in strategy talks. Pansy knows she should just drop it and call Niall, that’s it’s probably nothing. 

It’s probably nothing and she should drop it, but she stands anyway.

“Do I know you?” She asks the volunteer nearest her, leaning against his seat.

His face flushes a bright red, accentuating his pimply forehead. “N-no? Well, maybe-- um, I’ve been traveling with you guys for quite sometime… so…” 

The girl sitting next to him hits his arm, a scowl on her face. And then it clicks.

“You’re one of Perry’s staffers,” she says to the girl, eyes widening in recognition. “And you also?” She directs towards the boy. He folds into himself, shaking his head rapidly, which only proves her  point. 

She slides into the seat next to him, poking his arm. “How did I not notice this before? You all were at the Governor’s Ball, weren’t you? Merlin, how long have you been with us? At least a week, right? You must have so much information to give back to your blessed Perry.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the girl says, lips pursing.

“Oh, the fuck you don’t--”

“Pansy, wh- what are you doing?” 

She looks up, relieved to see Khoutan standing in front of her, phone in hand, as per usual.

Pansy gestures to the assembled crew. “They’re all plants.”

Khoutan’s eyes narrow. “You’re not serious.”

“Tell her!” Pansy says, poking the boy’s arm again. “Come on. The jig is up.” 

Khoutan cocks her head as she studies the people in front of her. Pansy knows the moment she realizes, mostly because she lets out such a rapid, depraved string of swears that everyone in earshot cringes.

“You all are Perry staffers!” She says sharply. “Oh my  _ god _ . Draco!”

Draco emerges from the back of the bus, an eyebrow arched. “What?”

“We have a spy!”

“You’re not serious.”

And the cycle repeats, of disbelief then realization, until Hermione assigns a security guard to the not so helpful volunteers, proclaiming that she’ll deal with it after the rally.

By the time it’s all over, Mays has nearly had a coronary from stress.  _ We need to leave! _ He had shrieked every two or so seconds while they figured it out. He only calmed down when the bus finally puttered to life and they had left.

Draco, Hermione, Khoutan, and Pansy move back into their section, collapsing into the dusty seats. 

“What do we do?” Khoutan asks in a tired voice. “Who knows how much they’ve all learned?”

“We could always force feed them some Veritaserum and find out,” Pansy suggests. “No one would have to know.”

“You’re demented,” Khoutan mutters. She groans, burying her head in her hands. “How did I not notice? Draco and I must have been standing next to that one girl for  _ hours _ at that stupid fucking ball.”

“It’s no one’s fault,” Hermione says, voice weirdly soothing. “After the rally, we’ll try to find out what they’ve learned.”

Pansy perks up. “I can get some Veritaserum quickly--”

“We are  _ not _ using Veritaserum,” Hermione interrupts with a grimace. “Draco, draft a statement. We’ll do a press release, hopefully it’ll affect his numbers.”

Draco nods, whipping out his phone and typing furiously.

“Perry’s team is playing dirty. They’re determined to win,” Khoutan says. “We have to be careful.”

“God, we probably need to make sure the offices aren’t bugged or something, right?” Draco mutters, focus mostly on his phone.

“Please, Draco. Even Perry wouldn’t sink that low.”

“He may be stupid, but he isn’t  _ that _ stupid. That shit’s illegal.”

“I can still get some Veritaserum--”

“We are  _ not _ using Veritaserum!”

\--

They step out of the bus, met with a crowd of probably nine or ten thousand.

Whe n Hermione takes her place at the podium, the crowd erupts in cheers and applause. Multiple times during her speech, she has to stop talking because the noise gets so loud. Pansy watches from the side, feeling weirdly, ridiculously excited. Rallies have really grown on her, if she’s being honest, and her favorite part is coming up.

An aide pushes her into the wings, murmuring into his wand, “Okay, Ms. Parkinson on the stage in three, two…” 

When she steps onto the stage, she’s met with a roar so loud she’s knocked back for a moment. 

It’s the most alive she’s ever felt.

\--

Monday is not as joyful as Pansy hoped it would be. The bombshell that Perry had spied on Hermione’s campaign turned out not to be so much of a bombshell, but an opportunity for Perry to get on TV and whine about how politics is so “sensitive” and “censored” these days. It barely stayed in the news cycle for an hour before people were bored of it. 

Draco, Khoutan, and Hermione are all so incredibly on edge the entire day that most in the office avoid them. Well, most, but not all.

After Pansy and Draco’s third fight in as many hours, the office has relaxed slightly. Khoutan called Weasley, Hermione and Niall spoke in hushed tones, laughed a little, and Draco got out most of his  anger by the time everyone went home.

The office empties out, one by one, until only Hermione’s left. Pansy briefly considers leaving, taking up Niall’s offer to split a cab (that’s right, cabs have grown on her too, though she has no earthly idea how that happened), but eventually decides to stay.

Her footsteps are nearly silent when she pokes her head into Hermione’s office. 

“You know it’s eight, right? The workday ended three hours ago.”

Hermione doesn’t even seem surprised that Pansy stayed. “My workday goes on until at least midnight.”

“Ah. You see, so many days on the road I had forgotten.”

“You mean three weeks on the road?” Hermione finally looks up from the pile of work on her desk, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Sit?”

Pansy does as asked. “What are you working on?”

Hermione snorts, shaking her head. “Working on this stupid bill. It’s probably not even going to get passed, but I can’t…” She blinks, looking up like she’s remembering someone else is in the room.  “Never mind.”

“Well, I won’t pry, though I desperately want to.” Pansy heaves a sigh. “When are you going to eat dinner?”

“Um, whenever I’m done?”

“So you  _ aren't _ going to eat dinner, then.”

“I’ll eat when I’m done.”

“Merlin, Granger.”

Pansy leans over the desk, smacking Hermione’s quill out of her hand. “You’re infuriating.”

“ _ I’m _ the infuriating one? You’re the one that just assaulted me!”

“That’s dramatic.”

“Your natural flair for over exaggeration must be rubbing off on me, then,” Hermione mutters, picking up her quill and dusting it off with a pointed look at Pansy.

“Come on. Let’s go home. I’ll cook something.”

Hermione stills, lips twitching up. After a long moment, she nods, sweeping everything into a desk drawer with a flick of her wand. 

“Are you actually going to cook?” She asks.

“God, no. Is there pizza nearby?”

Hermione laughs, which makes Pansy smile, because Hermione really has a gorgeous laugh, and they leave her office, walking through the eerie, dark halls that are normally so full. As they walk, it’s hard to ignore Hermione’s wide smile.

“What are you so happy about?” Pansy asks, bumping Hermione’s hips with her own.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “I’m just… er, well, I’m glad you’re getting settled in London. When you first came here… I mean, it seemed like you were ready to burn the entire place down and then flee back to Paris.”

“That’s quite a visual.”

“It most certainly is.”

Silence grows between them, comfortable, lengthy silence, and their fingers are brushing as they walk but neither are making any move to pull away.

Pansy’s phone buzzes. 

She ignores it.

It buzzes again.

And again. And again. And again. And again.

“Merlin’s balls, what is so fucking important?” She mutters, yanking her phone out of her pocket.

_ Get down to the hospital now. Ginny’s having the baby. -Blaise. _

\--

“What the  _ fuck _ do you mean we can’t see her? We’re basically her fucking family!”

“To be fair, ma’am, we aren’t letting family see her either.”

Pansy leans closer to the nurse, prodding a finger into her chest. “I would consider my next words  _ very _ closely if I were you, because I can and  _ will _ rain down a fuckload of hell on this  _ entire fucking hospital _ \--”

“Okay, Pansy, that’s enough.” Hermione yanks her away, exchanging a few hushed words with the nurse. “Let’s go,” she mutters, scowling. 

“Wh-- what’s going on? Where’s Blaise?” Pansy asks, following Hermione as she makes her way through the hall and back into the waiting room.

“The Healers are taking Ginny in for a Cesarean. There’s some complications, she didn’t tell me what, though. I don’t know where the hell Blaise is.”

Pansy sinks her nails into Hermione’s arm. “A C-section? She’s right on time-- why the fuck would she need a C-section?”

“I don’t know-- stop doing that! It hurts!”

Pansy lets go, swearing rapidly under her breath. “I haven’t called Blaise in, like, a  _ month-- _ ”

“None of this is your fault, okay? Ginny’s going to be just fine-- Pansy. Look at me.” Pansy meets Hermione’s eyes, gaze like an anchor, nails digging into her arms again without a thought. “Ginny is going to be fine. Okay? She’s going to be fine.”

“She’s going to be fine,” Pansy repeats, murmuring it to herself over and over again. “The Healers are incredibly capable, and, like, we have fucking magic, so she’s going to be fine.”

Hermione laughs slightly, pushing Pansy into a chair and dropping into the one next to her. “Exactly.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Pansy clinging to Hermione’s arm so hard she knows it’s probably hurting Hermione, but she can’t make herself let go.

She wants to thank Hermione, for anchoring her, for forcing her to calm down, for stopping her from slapping that fucking nurse right across her lying face, but before she can, before she can open her mouth and manage those two words, there’s a flash of orange in her periphery, and noise promptly fills the air as Weasleys pour into the waiting room.

Molly Weasley is at the front of the throng, screeching  _ where is my daughter!  _ over and over again, with brothers and cousins and randoms Pansy didn’t even see at Hogwarts following, all yelling and jostling around. 

Hermione flies up when she sees them, arm sliding out of Pansy’s grasp as she slams into Molly Weasley, who embraces her so tightly Pansy briefly worries about Hermione’s breathing.

“Where is she?” Molly demands as soon as Hermione pulls away. 

“They were some complications--”

“ _ Complications _ ? What the  _ fuck _ does that mean?” Molly Weasley snaps, pushing Hermione aside. She marches towards the front desk, spitting in the receptionist’s face, “ _ Excuse me _ \--!”

She’s yanked away by Arthur Weasley, in a similar fashion as to how Hermione yanked Pansy away from that nurse a few minutes ago.

Pansy turns away from the assorted Weasleys, who have started to notice her, and nearly cries out in relief when she sees Draco and Harry rush through the sliding doors. 

The two of them, both sloppily dressed and red-eyed, skid on the tile floors. Harry barely recovers before he dives into the sea of Weasleys, but Draco pivots away and, when he sees her, makes his  way over to her, dodging yelling Weasleys like he’s been doing it all his life.

“Where’s Blaise?” He asks her, cold hand wrapping around hers.

“I don’t know, no one’s telling me anything.” She adds with a scowl, “No one’s telling anyone anything, really. Molly Weasley’s about to kill someone.”

“Did I hear George correctly? There are complications?”

She nods.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

“Draco, you made it,” Hermione says, appearing next to Pansy. “Where’s Harry?”

“Being attacked by Weasleys,” Draco mutters, casting a glance behind him. 

“Hermione!” Comes a shrill voice. The three of them turn, seeing Molly Weasley gesture hurriedly to Hermione. 

“I’ll be right back,” she murmurs, striding away.

“What do you think that’s about?” Draco says in a low voice, eyes cutting to Pansy.

“Who the fuck knows?”

“I really admire how we’re in the waiting room of the maternity ward of a hospital, and you’re still swearing.”

Pansy makes a face at him. “Aw, babe, I admire you too.”

Draco makes a noise but doesn’t respond, eyes on Hermione as she makes her way back to them.

“Pansy, Molly wants to speak to you,” she says, voice squeaking slightly.

Pansy blinks at her. “I beg your pardon?”

Draco lets out a low whistle. “Thank Merlin I’m not you.”

“Shut  _ up _ , Draco.”

“You shut up--”

“Can we just  _ not _ , please?” Hermione hisses. “We’re in a hospital, our friend is…” She trails off, frowning. “Well, frankly, I don’t know  _ what _ she is, but isn’t that the issue! Stop fighting! Now, Pansy,  _ please _ come speak to Molly with me.”

“Do I have to?”

Hermione gives her a look that assures her that, yes, she does have to.

“Fine.”

Hermione pulls her away, leaving Draco just in time for Harry to reach him, two toddler Weasleys hanging onto his shirt. 

As they approach Molly and Arthur Weasley, Pansy has the vivid feeling that she’s being watched by the rest of the Weasley clan. 

Jesus, she should have asked Draco about meeting the Weasleys for the first time. Or Blaise. Was this going to be some sort of test? Fuck.

“Miss Parkinson,” Molly greets when they reach her, holding out her hand. Pansy, apprehensively shakes it, nodding her greeting to Arthur.

“Can I help you with something, Mrs. Weasley?” She asks in a low voice, hearing whispers start up behind her.

“Well… I understand that you are one of Blaise’s closest friends.”

“I am.”

“And I also understand that you have a... hm, how shall I put this? You have... a considerable amount of sway when it comes to getting what you want.”

Pansy blinks. “I... do.”

“Well, I was wondering if you’d be willing to use that...  _ sway _ to find out some information about my daughter.”

Pansy lets out a sigh, shaking her head. “I already tried using my considerable amount of sway, as you’ve put it, but that nurse is  _ such _ a bi-- I mean, that nurse is very rude, and I couldn’t get  anything out of her.”

Molly sighs, face reddening. “She is a bitch.”

Pansy chokes down a laugh, aware that Molly probably wasn’t ready to laugh about this yet, seeing it was her daughter’s wellbeing up in the air.

“Molly, get Harry to do it,” Hermione suggests. 

“No, Harry hates doing that,” she mutters, waving a hand around. “We’ll just have to wait.”

Hermione opens her mouth, most likely to object, but is cut off by Molly’s shriek as Blaise walks through the double doors, a stained surgical gown draped over him.

Pansy gets knocked back as everyone rushes towards him, yelling and asking questions, but he simply exchanges a few words with Molly, whose face crumples.

Silence abruptly falls.

“The baby is here, she’s healthy and all that,” Blaise repeats, a little louder. “But Ginny’s still bleeding, or something like that, I’m not sure, they rushed me out of the room pretty quickly…” His face contorts, briefly, like he’s about to cry. “They said she’s going to be okay. We’ll be able to see her and the baby in a bit.”

Whispers and murmurs start up again as Blaise turns away. Molly and Arthur start heatedly discussing amongst themselves, the rest of the Weasleys plop back into chairs. Pansy, impulsively, pushes  through the throng of people to Blaise. She stops him just before he goes back through the hall.

“Blaise--”

He whirls around and yanks her into a hug, effectively cutting her off. A tense, silent moment passes until she relaxes, settling her arms around his shoulders. 

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispers. A quiet, heartbreaking sob cracks out of him, and Pansy has to clench her jaw so she doesn’t cry too. 

She tightens her grip on Blaise, whispering  _ it’s going to be okay  _ over and over, until the words have no meaning anymore.

“I love you, you know that right?” Blaise says after a long minute, voice thick.

Pansy lets out a choked sob, or maybe it’s a laugh, and smacks his head lightly. “Fucker. That’s the first time you’ve ever said that to me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and she wholeheartedly believes that he  _ is _ sorry, whether that’s for buying into the pureblood ideals that love is weak, or letting them drift apart, or anything else that’s happened since they were six years old and didn’t know how to speak to each other, only knew that holding onto each other made it hurt less.

“I’m sorry too,” she whispers. “I’ve never said it to you either.”

“Mr. Zabini?”

Blaise turns towards the voice, tensing when he sees a Healer, splattered in blood, beckoning him over. “It’s going to be okay,” Pansy reminds him, nudging him towards the woman.

Hermione, who had been hovering nearby the entire time, takes Blaise’s place at Pansy’s side, loosely lacing their fingers together instinctively, like they’ve been together for years, like they take comfort in only each other.

Pansy exhales, leaning into Hermione.

“Ginny’s going to be okay,” Hermione murmurs.

“I know that.” Pansy bites her lip, eyes scanning the Healer’s face for any signs of what went on in that operating room. “But tell me again?”

Hermione rests her head against Pansy’s arm. “Ginny’s going to be okay. The baby’s going to be okay.”

“You mean Pansy Junior?”

Hermione clucks her tongue. “You’re awful.”

“You love me.”

Hermione stiffens, just the slightest bit. Pansy does too. Mostly because she meant to say,  _ you love it,  _ not  _ you love me _ , because that’s a completely different statement and has completely different connotations--

Blaise laughs, almost hysterically, and throws his arms around the Healer, unintelligibly chattering about something. The Healer, grimacing slightly, nods but pushes him away, only to be surrounded by Weasleys all trying to find out about Ginny’s status. The Healer, looking overwhelmed, just shouts, “She’s fine!”, turning and fleeing back into the hall a moment later. 

Relief courses through Pansy, almost bringing her down to her knees, and she turns and flings her arms around Hermione, tears pricking at her eyes. 

(And then it happens.)

(Within the excitement, the terror, the world-trembling ease at hearing Ginny’s okay, the baby’s okay, Blaise is okay, at all of that, Pansy, while intending to simply hug Hermione, kisses her instead.)

Simple miscalculation. Just like when she said,  _ you love me,  _ instead of  _ you love it _ . Except this is, arguably, so much worse. Because Pansy’s hands are on Hermione’s neck, Hermione’s hands are lightly placed on Pansy’s back, and her lips are warm, and soft, and fucking-- what the fuck is she doing? What the actual  _ fuck _ is she doing? 

Pansy yanks away, or maybe Hermione does, who knows or who fucking cares, and Pansy sees shock and horror written all over her face, and is sure her face reflects the same feelings.

“I’m-- uh, I’m going to, you know…” Pansy gestures towards Blaise, starting to walk away. 

Hermione nods rapidly. “Yes, exactly--er, uh huh.” 

Pansy flees. 

\--

Vita Weasley-Zabini, born September 2nd and weighing 2.9 kg, looks exactly like her father, with the same tight curls and dark skin. Her light brown eyes are pure Weasley though, light brown eyes that have been closed for a while.

Pansy sits, Vita in her arms, and tries to exhale. Ginny, exhausted and a little bent out of shape from the birth, is asleep in the bed next to them.

For a while, the only people in the room are her, Blaise, who lays in a cot next to Ginny’s bed, and Draco, who quietly is sitting in the corner of the room, head tilted against the wall, eyes closed.

Pansy tries not to cry.

Harry and Hermione took Mrs and Mr Weasley down to the cafeteria for some food a bit ago, Harry flashing Draco a meaningful glance as they shoved them out the door. Draco had seemed to ignore it, so Pansy hadn’t tried to decipher the look, hadn’t wanted to. 

Pansy should have known better.

“I saw you two,” Draco murmurs, his voice quietly rumbling through the room. Neither Blaise nor Ginny stir, but Vita makes a small cooing sound, one that Pansy’s quick to respond to. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replies a couple minutes later, after Vita’s safely asleep again.

“You  _ so _ do,” Draco says in a sing-song voice, grinning.

Pansy tries to wrestle down her smile. “You’re such a child.”

Draco presses a finger to his lips, shushing her. “Don’t want to wake the baby.”

She mouths a few choice words at him. 

He silently gasps, head tipping back in offense.

“What are you two up to?” 

Pansy looks over to Blaise, blearily blinking and rubbing at his head.

“We’re talking about how your daughter should have been named Pansy,” Pansy lies.

“Is it not enough to be named her godmother? You have to be her namesake too?”

“Vita’s such a pretty name,” Draco interjects. “Like Vita Sackville-West.”

“Well, it’s supposed to be after my great grandmother, but yeah, her too.”

Pansy shoves down her laugh, afraid to wake the baby. Draco has no such qualms, and his bark of laughter is soon echoing around the room. 

Everyone tenses, eyes on Ginny and Vita, but there’s no response from either.

Blaise looses a breath, Pansy and Draco do the same.

“I love you guys,” Blaise whispers, eyes shining.

Draco blinks, cheeks coloring slightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that from you before,” he mutters. “It’s… nice.”

“That’s my second one today,” Pansy boasts, grinning when Draco makes a face. “I love you guys too,” she adds in a softer tone, avoiding Blaise’s eyes.

“Yes, well, since we’re all sharing,” Draco starts with a sniff, “I do love you two, my greatest companions, as well.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “You really had to make it all pretentious, didn’t you?”

“Wh-- no I didn’t!”

“Yeah, you did,” Blaise murmurs, smiling. 

Draco sticks his tongue out, the epitome of childishness. 

“Ugh, and here I thought you were all finally being emotionally mature.”

Pansy’s gaze snaps to the bed, where Ginny, pale but smiling, blinks awake, hand grasping for Blaise’s. 

“How are you feeling?” Blaise asks, rushing to help her sit up.

“Where’s my baby?” She responds.

Pansy stands and deposits Vita in Ginny’s arms in one fluid motion, hovering near the bed anxiously as Ginny sighs, pressing her nose against Vita’s head. 

“Thank you, Pansy,” she murmurs, eyes fluttering closed again. “Blaise, where’s El?”

“Bill and Fleur are watching her,” he answers, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “Do you want me to go get her?”

“Stay for a bit?”

Feeling like now she’s intruding on something personal, Pansy grabs Draco’s elbow and hauls him out of the room, only exhaling when the door is closed and they’re out in the hallway.

Draco and Pansy look at each other for a moment, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, until Draco finally breaks the silence, saying in a quiet voice, “I’m sorry if it seemed like I was against you when you first arrived.”

Pansy sighs, shaking her head. “Things change when you’re gone for twelve years. I get it.”

“I know, but… it wasn’t fair. With the stuff we’ve been through together…” He runs a hand over his face. “I’m always going to be on your side, Pansy. Okay? Whether you’re gone for twelve years or fifty.”

Pansy nods, trying not to let the overwhelming emotion coursing through her show on her face. “I’m always going to be on your side too. Unless, like, you become a dick. Then I’m bailing.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but doesn’t challenge her. “So we’re good?”

“We’ve always been good.”

“Good.” He pauses, twisting around slightly. When he meets her eyes again, there’s a dangerous glimmer in them. “So. You shoved your tongue down Hermione’s throat--”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

“Such horrible language-- and in a hospital of all places!”

Pansy pushes him away with a scowl. “Fucker--”

“Is Ginny awake?”

Pansy whirls around, flushing when she sees Mrs and Mr Weasley behind her, hands full of pudding cups, a smirking Harry behind them.

“Ginny’s awake, Mrs. Weasley,” Draco answers.

The two of them knock on the door and apparently hearing an answer, file in, leaving Pansy, Harry, and Draco alone in the hallway.

“So polite, Pansy,” Harry teases, his smirk growing into a full grin.

“Oh shut it--”

“ _ Fucker _ ,” Draco imitates, voice pitched up. “Honestly, Pansy--”

“What did Pansy do now?”

Pansy has to do her best not to break out in a coughing fit as Hermione joins them, a bag of crisps in her hand.

“Pans said ‘fucker’ in front of Molly and Arthur,” Harry says, stealing a crisp.

Hermione grins. “Rookie mistake, Parkinson.”

Pansy makes a face at her. “I won’t apologize for who I am.”

Hermione rolls her eyes but doesn’t fire back, instead changing the subject. “I’m assuming Ginny’s awake?”

Pansy nods, letting Draco answer. Surreptitiously, she checks her watch, almost groaning aloud when she sees it’s almost 4 in the morning. 

“... giving Leah the afternoon off to come visit with Ron, so you have all morning free, okay? But you have to show up in the afternoon,” Pansy hears when she tunes back in.

“I already spoke with Astoria,” Draco responds, phone in hand. “Half of everything happening this week has been pushed to next week, around the Paris visit, of course, so the next few days will be  more lowkey.”

“Excellent. I’m heading home. What about you guys?”

“We’re leaving too,” Harry says, looping his arm around Draco’s. 

“Pansy?” Hermione asks, eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“I’m staying. I’ll--uh, I’ll link up with you all tomorrow.”

Draco gives her a weird look, but doesn’t say anything.

A few minutes later, Draco and Harry are gone, and Hermione’s murmuring goodbye to Ginny and Blaise, being crushed to death by some of the Weasley clan. 

“I’ll walk you out,” Pansy suggests, figuring it’s the least she can do and also something that girlfriends do. Not that she’s Hermione’s girlfriend, per se, just like, everyone thinks they are, so--

“Okay,” Hermione replies, gathering her coat around her, eyes darting away.

Pansy falls into step with her as they walk out of the building and towards the nearest Apparition point. 

They walk in blessed silence for a bit, until Hermione clears her throat and, rubbing at her cheek, says, “We should talk about what happened back there.”

Pansy barely manages to hold in her sigh. “I guess we should.”

“I’ll start--”

“No, I will,” Pansy interjects, grabbing Hermione’s arm, slowing her to a stop. “I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that. It was inappropriate, and I was excited and relieved-- not that that’s an excuse, but still. I’m sorry.”

Hermione blinks, mouth hanging open slightly. “You didn’t assault me.”

“Jesus, Granger, still.”

Hermione smiles, a small smile, just her lips curving up slightly, but it’s enough to ease the knots in Pansy’s stomach. 

“Let’s go back to how we were before, okay? Friends.”

The smile abruptly disappears.

“Yeah-- yeah, of course,” Hermione responds quickly, turning away. “I’m just going to walk the last block by myself, okay?”

“Wh-- Hermione, you don’t have to.”

“I want to!” She calls over her shoulder, pace quickening, leaving Pansy standing like an idiot, alone on the sidewalk.

Pansy feels the cold more than she did a moment before.

A minute later, Hermione’s Apparated away, without even a wave goodbye. 

Too tired to try and figure out what the hell just happened, Pansy trudges back to the hospital, collapsing in her chair at Ginny’s bedside and falling asleep seemingly seconds later.  She sleeps fitfully, after all, the chair is the fucking farthest thing from comfortable, and awakes with a start around eight, Molly Weasley shaking her shoulders and hissing her name.

“Christ almighty-- what?”

Mrs Weasley raises a parcel with her name scribbled on it. “Draco dropped this off for you a moment ago.”

Pansy takes it hesitantly, still groggy. “Oh, er, thank you?”

Mrs Weasley nods, satisfied with herself, and goes back to her knitting. Whatever the hell she’s knitting, Pansy’s not sure, but she’s been at it all night.

Pansy turns her attention back to the parcel, which is really just some brown paper tied together with string. She rips it open, seeing a wrinkled, folded newspaper laying there, a note clumsily attached to it. Grasping the note, something in her stomach flutters when she sees, in Draco’s loopy handwriting,  _ I like this for you. -D _

The newspaper, dated the day after the Governor’s Ball, is ridiculously headlined,  _ GOV GRANGER AND PARAMOUR PANSY PARKINSON SHINE AT GOV’S BALL.  _ The picture underneath is what captures Pansy’s gaze though, a still photo of her and Hermione, in that dramatic as shit pose. It’s quite artistically done, with them just in the center, everyone in the background doing the boring version of the dance, which just highlights the two of them more. And… Pansy sucks in a breath when she sees it. Everything around her seems to blur when she sees it, really,  _ it _ being the look on Hermione’s face because, well, she doesn’t even  _ know _ , it makes her stomach drop and heart explode in her chest, because, quite honestly, it’s a look of fucking  _ love _ . It’s… it’s Pansy standing abruptly, apologizing softly to Mrs. Weasley, and racing to the bathroom, the newspaper still clutched in her hand. 

Locking herself in, briefly checking to make sure no one else is hidden in a stall, she examines the photo privately. Fingers drifting over Hermione’s face, her hair, her dress, her smile, all of it.

Everyone knows Hermione can’t act for shit. She can’t manipulate her facial expressions, or fake happiness, or anything like that, so what the fuck did this mean?

Did it mean that Hermione, like,  _ like liked _ Pansy? God, that’s such a childish way of putting it. 

Pansy struggles to come up with something else.

Does  _ she _ like Hermione like that? She’d know if she did, right? Yeah. Of course. But then again, she hadn’t known Hermione felt like that, and Hermione’s literally the worst fucking actor in the entire  damn world--

Pansy swears softly to herself, thinking of the kiss yesterday. How afterward, she had said, _ Let’s go back to how we were before, okay? Friends, _ and Hermione had basically sprinted away.

She stares at the picture. 

Pansy had never dared to dream of anyone looking at her like that.

\--

Pansy stays staunchly by Blaise’s side all day, except when Ginny tries to breastfeed, because that’s just a little too personal for her, if she’s being honest but, never mind that, ignore it, she basically stays by Blaise’s side all day. Hordes of Weasleys cycle through, including Ron with Leah on his arm (Pansy doesn’t stop smirking the entire time they visit, which very obviously makes Leah want to punch her). Draco and Harry pass through and Draco doesn’t acknowledge the very big piece of news he shared with her, so she doesn’t ask about the many questions that have been whirling about in her mind for the last few hours, like, for example, why didn’t she ever see this picture? Or, how many people knew about the picture and hid it from her? Or even, did Draco show her the picture because he knew she liked Hermione back and he wanted them to get together, like, for real? 

Merlin, she’s such a fucking teenager.

The Healers want Ginny to stay another couple days, just for observation. This leads to Blaise urging Pansy to go home, just for a few hours at least, to shower and eat something, since he and  Ginny weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. At her protest, Ginny added,  _ You stink, Parkinson,  _ and thought Pansy doesn’t make it a habit to flip off medically unstable new mothers, she did so that day.

So now she’s home. She moves around the flat, mind still full, hair freshly washed and clothes changed. She’s already shoved the newspaper in the very back of her dresser, hoping for the whole out-of-sight-out-of-mind thing to work, just this once.

It wouldn’t be the worst thing if Hermione liked her. Pansy just needs to be in control of the situation, you know? She just has to know what’s going on, just has to be aware. 

She can handle this. She can handle anything.

Her phone rings. 

Pansy groans when she sees Hermione’s name on her phone. Speak of the fucking devil. She briefly considers not picking up, but caves after the fourth ring.

“Uh, hello?”

“Leah, I need you to come in again. I have the meet and greet with the firefighters tomorrow morning, but the venue canceled. There was a fire in the kitchen last night, ironically--”

“As much as I’d love to help you with that, I’m afraid I can’t,” Pansy interjects.

“...Pansy?”

“The one and only.”

“Sorry, I meant to call Leah.”

“I figured.” Pansy pauses, listening to the flutter of papers in the background. “You sound stressed.”

“I am stressed. The venue for the meet and greet canceled with less than 24 hours to go till the event! We’ll have to send out new invites, notices, new directions-- not to mention finding another venue, just in general.”

“Don’t you have interns to do this for you?”

“The interns are phone banking right now.”

“Don’t you have volunteers to do that?”

“The campaign is on a temporary hiatus with the whole ‘volunteer’ thing. Seems risky at the moment.”

“Ah, yes, because of the whole spying situation. What about Draco? Isn’t he supposed to be there with you?”

“He went home an hour ago.”

“So he worked, like, 4 hours today. Call him back in.”

“Leah only worked 3 hours this morning, that’s why I was calling her. Figured it was fair.”

“I love capitalism.”

“Do you think if I become Minister of Magic I’ll have enough support to, like, full on ban capitalism?”

“I don’t think society’s ready for that.”

“We’re in end-stage capitalism, Pansy. Society’s collapsing. Ready or not, here socialism comes.”

“That should be your catchphrase.”

Hermione laughs, finally sounding like she’s relaxing. “It should be, shouldn’t it? God, could you imagine how the press would attack me?”

“It would be a bloodbath.”

“I might even be assassinated.”

“Jesus, that’s a dark thought.”

“You have to consider these things when you’re in my position.”

“Still.”

“Can you deliver the eulogy, Pans? I think you have the right skill set to really give me the sendoff I deserve.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Fine. Only for you.”

There’s no response. 

Pansy’s okay with that, if she’s being honest. Her eyelids are heavy and her stomach is fluttering and her palms are sweating. She doesn’t know if she can handle a response. Even if, moments ago, she was proclaiming that she could handle anything.

“I should go, okay? Still have to figure out the venue thing,” Hermione murmurs.

“I’m not going back to the hospital till tomorrow morning, so I’ll see you later?”

She hears Hermione exhale. “Yeah, of course. Bye.”

Pansy’s eyes close, jaw clenching, because she wants so desperately to ask  _ why didn’t you tell me  _ and  _ please say what I think you want to say  _ and  _ I feel it too.  _ Instead, forcing a smile even though Hermione can’t see her, she mumbles, “Bye.”

Hermione hangs up.

Pansy lets out a heavy breath, dropping her phone onto the counter. 

Fuck.

She’s not in control of the situation.

\--

“Fucking  _ Paris _ !”

Pansy’s out of London, finally, and back in Paris for the  _ biggest _ event she’s ever organized for her charities, a huge fucking gala, where every single cent goes directly to helping others.

It’s the best she’s felt in a long, long time.

It’s  _ not _ fucking raining when Pansy steps off the private jet, it’s sunny and there’s a perfect chill in the air that makes her wrap her shawl around herself a little tighter. She slides her sunglasses on, breathing in the fresh air like it’s all she will ever need. 

“You speak French, right?”

“Je peux parler un peu français,” Pansy answers easily, turning to watch Hermione, loaded down with all of her technology, try to make her way down the steep stairs. “Do you need help?”

“I need Leah to fix the office’s WiFi connection, that’s what I need. Wait, so do you speak French or not?”

Pansy rolls her eyes, darting up the stairs to take a stack of laptops from Hermione’s arms. “I’ve lived in France for the last ten years. What do you think?”

“Around 39% of France’s population can speak some English. I didn’t know if you had been hanging out with that 39% exclusively.”

Pansy sighs. “I speak French.”

Hermione reaches the bottom of the steps, letting out a heavy breath. “Well, that’s great for me, then.”

“Let’s go. We have to check into the hotel in 45 minutes.”

They stride off the tarmac and into the bustling airport. A strange mixture of languages hits Pansy’s ears, and it’s all so wonderfully familiar she can’t help but relax, the pressures of the gala slightly  alleviated now that they’re finally here. Pansy gestures towards a private elevator, leading Hermione into it and pressing a button that will take them straight to the private car Pansy had sent for them.

“Are you going to show me around Paris at all? I’ve been looking over travel guides and I’ve found some places we could go that won’t be too busy.”

“If it’s in a travel guide, it’s busy.”

Hermione frowns. “So no?”

“The gala is tomorrow morning, a brunch event, but our plane doesn’t leave until tomorrow night, so I’ll show you around the city tomorrow afternoon, okay?”

Hermione whistles. “You’re acting like me.”

“Well, this is very important to me. And you’re the most organized person I know.”

Hermione doesn’t try to hide her smile. A smile that abruptly disappears when her phone starts ringing. She shifts her bags, reaching into her pocket to grab her phone. “What’s up, Leah?”

Pansy hears a lot of unintelligible yelling from the other line.

Hermione rolls her eyes. Covering the phone’s speaker with her palm, she says, sounding slightly irritated, “Leah wants to know if you have the list.”

Now it’s Pansy’s turn to roll her eyes. “Tell her I’ve got the fucking list.”

“She’s got the fucking list.” She pauses, nodding. “No, that’s a direct quote.”

“Does she need evidence?” Pansy fishes the piece of parchment out of her purse, dangling it in front of Hermione. After a moment, Hermione hands the phone to Pansy, who clears her throat and, very confidently, starts, “List of Things Governor Hermione Granger Can and Cannot Do as a Politician Supporting a Place of Business-- number one: endorse the place of business. Number two: encourage constituents to frequent place of business--”

“If she does any one of these things everyone’s in big trouble! Number thirteen and sixteen are  _ ridiculously _ illegal--”

“I understand! I won’t let her out of my sight! Jesus.”

“Okay. I’m going to go now. Call me before the gala tomorrow.”

“Naturally.”

“Actually, can I talk to Hermione for just a sec--”

Pansy hangs up.

Because this wasn’t a campaign event (number four on the list: do not reference this trip as a campaign event in any shape or form), Leah and Draco had no reason to accompany them to Paris. Apparently this was a big deal, because she and Hermione had been fielding frantic texts and phone calls for the last twelve hours about anything and everything concerning Paris.

“You are all so codependent,” she says to Hermione, tossing her phone back.

The elevator doors open. Gathering up all of their things, they set off towards the large, glass sliding doors at the end of the hall. 

“They just don’t trust us.” Hermione cocks her head, thinking. “Well, they trust  _ me _ , I think it’s just that they don’t trust you--”

“You punch a reporter  _ one _ time and suddenly you aren’t trustworthy.”

Hermione grins and tucks her phone away. “Where are we staying?”

“My place. Hotels attract too much attention.”

“Ooh, Pansy’s place. The famed apartment that apparently puts my flat to shame--”

“It  _ does _ put your flat to shame--”

“I’m so very excited.”

“Shut it.” 

They emerge back out into the sun, Pansy pushing her sunglasses back into place. Scanning the hordes of bodies and cars everywhere and not seeing what she wants to, she sighs. “Plug your ears.”

“What?”

“Plug your ears,” Pansy repeats, grabbing her travel hand sanitizer out of her purse and, after tearing the cap off with her teeth, squirting some on her hands.

“Why?”

“I warned you.” Sliding two fingers into her mouth, Pansy lets out an ear-piercing whistle, so loud it echoes off the tall walls of the airport. 

Hermione yelps, jumping away. “Mother _ fucker _ \--”

“I told you!”

“You could have told me more!”

“Will you please shut up for _one_ _second--_ ”  


Pansy’s cut off by another whistle. Her gaze snaps in the direction the whistle came from, and she grins when she sees her driver, an older man named Alaire, lounging against her car a whiles away.

“Come on,” she urges Hermione, half jogging towards Alaire and her custom-painted Slytherin Green Alfa Romeo.

“You really are a stereotype, aren’t you?” Hermione mutters.

“What, because of the green?”

“Yes, because of the green.”

“And that god awful red rug in your bedroom? What is that? You certainly didn’t get it because it was stylish.”

“Fine. I see your point.”

“Fleur stupide!” Alaire shouts ( _ stupid flower _ ), the nickname he’s called her since she was ten.

A laugh bursting out of her, Pansy flat out runs the last twenty feet, launching herself into Alaire’s arms. He staggers back a few feet but manages to hold onto her, frail hands patting her back.  “J’étais nerveux. Je ne savais pas si tu pouvais encore siffler,” she tells him ( _ I was nervous. I didn’t know if you could still whistle). _ He rolls his eyes, squeezing her shoulder.

“Je ne suis pas si vieux,” he says gruffly ( _ I’m not that old _ ). He peers past her, eyebrows raising. “Est-ce la petite amie?” ( _ Is this the girlfriend? _ )

“Soit gentils ou va-t’en,” she mutters ( _ Be nice or go away _ ).

She turns, pulling a nervous looking Hermione up to stand next to her. “Hermione, this is Alaire, my ever-suffering driver. Alaire, c’est Hermione.”

“Un  plaisir de vous rencontrer,” Alaire says, shaking Hermione’s hand eagerly. Turning to Pansy, he raises any eyebrow, which means he’s about to go into lecturing mode. “Pourquoi tu ne m’as pas parlé d’elle? Je t’ai mieux élevé--” ( _ Why didn’t you tell me about her? I raised you better-- _ )

“He says it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Pansy interjects, shooting him a dark look. 

“Tell him it’s a pleasure to meet him too,” Hermione says primly, flashing her politician smile.

“Sourit-elle normalement?” Alaire murmurs to her ( _ Does she smile normally? _ ).

“Smile like a regular person,” Pansy tells Hermione. “He can see through bullshit.”

“I  _ am _ smiling like a regular person,” she insists, but drops the expression anyway.

“I see you on… comment dites-vous en anglais… the nightly news?” Alaire says, smiling when Hermione nods. “Elle rend les hommes nerveux,” he adds to Pansy.

“What did he say?”

“He watches you on the nightly news. Says you make the men nervous.”

Hermione laughs, breaking out in the brightest smile Pansy’s ever seen. “That’s the highest compliment he could give me, honestly.”

Pansy says as much to Alaire. 

He shakes Hermione’s hand again and, with a few muttered words to Pansy that she doesn’t bother translating, ushers them into the Romeo.

It’s just as Pansy’s remembered it, the cool leather seats, the feel of the engine rumbling underneath her, even the fucking pine smell Alaire magically refreshes every week.

“Cela m'a tellement manqué,” she says with a sigh ( _ I’ve missed this so much) _ .

Alaire scoffs, shifting the car into drive and maneuvering smoothly out of the lot. “Alors revenez en France! Qu’est-ce que c’est que de toute façon Londres? Je prends une  _ merde _ sur Londres--” ( _ So  _ _ come back to France! What is London anyway? I take a shit on London-- _ )

“That’s enough! Jesus.”

Alaire continues ranting in thick, rapid French, but Pansy ignores him.

“I heard a ‘merde’ in there,” Hermione mutters.

“He hates London.”

Hermione smirks slightly. “Now I know where you get it.”

“I’ve been under his London-hating influence since I was ten,” Pansy explains. “So it makes sense.”

“What’s the story with you two?” She asks, daring a glance up at Alaire in the front seat. “You seem to know each other incredibly well.”

“Well--”

“Je sais que tu parles de moi!” ( _ I know you’re talking about me! _ )

“Nous ne sommes pas!” Pansy snaps in response. ( _ We aren’t! _ )

Hermione’s eyes widen.  _ Are you talking about me?  _ She mouths.

“He’s being whiny,” Pansy responds. “Ignore him.”

“Okay?”

“Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes, well, my parents didn’t like being parents too much, so during summers and holidays they would send me to my grandmother’s in France. Alaire was her personal driver, and we became fast friends, one might say. She died last April, but when I offered to let Alaire go, with full pension plus the condo my grandmother bequeathed to him, he refused.” Pansy rolls her eyes. “Though he did take the condo.”

“Your grandmother actually died?” Hermione says in a horrified whisper, mouth hanging open.

“You thought I was lying about my grandmother’s death to the press?”

“I thought it was one of those things you made up in the moment--”

“That’s incredibly easy to fact check, Hermione. Come on.”

“Madame Parkinson était toujours incroyablement gentille!” Alaire chimes in from the front seat.

“What did he say?” Hermione asks, still looking aghast at the news.

“My grandmother was very kind to him.” Pansy raises her eyebrows, adding in a murmur, “Maybe a little too kind, if you know what I mean.”

“Wh-- were they…  _ together _ ?” 

“Oh yeah. On and off, of course, but still--”

“Je  _ sais _ que tu parles de moi!” ( _ I know you’re talking about me! _ )

"Nous ne sommes!” ( _ We are not!) _ She turns back to Hermione. “But anyway, it’s not like it’s that scandalous. It basically just makes him my grandfather.”

“Why did he stay? After your grandmother died, I mean.”

“Je reste ici parce que--” ( _ I stay because-- _ )

“Vous êtes resté à cause de votre sens du devoir?” Pansy interjects, arching an eyebrow ( _ Because of your sense of duty? _ ).

“Parce que j’aime cette famille,” He corrects, waggling a finger at her ( _ Because I love this family _ ).

Pansy flushes slightly. “Nous t’aimons aussi.” ( _ We love you too) _

“Et avec ça, nous sommes là!” Alaire crows, smoothly parking the car.

“We’re here,” Pansy translates. 

“Already?” Hermione mutters.

“Grandmother Parkinson had all the cars infused with magic to get places without any obstacle.”

“Fun-- oh, er, merci beaucoup,” Hermione stammers when Alaire opens her door with a flick of his wand. 

“Je rentre à la maison. As-tu besoin d’autre chose?” ( _ I’m going home. Do you need anything else? _ )

“Non, dis bonjour à Martin pour moi.” ( _ No, say hello to Martin for me _ )

Pansy leaves the car, grabbing her bags from the trunk and, making sure Hermione’s collected all of her things, waves goodbye to Alaire. He speeds off a moment later, weaving in between other cars and lampposts in a way that makes Pansy glad she can’t see outside of the car when in it.

“So where’s the flat that allegedly puts mine to shame?” Hermione asks, sweeping her gaze over the gritty brick building in front of them.

“You’re hilarious,” Pansy says, making a face. “Seriously, though, come stand over here.”

Hermione shuffles over next to her. Pansy, looping an arm through hers, mutters, “Hold on.”

“What?”

“ _ Adolpha _ ,” Pansy says and, a moment later, she and Hermione shoot into the sky, buoyed by an invisible wind. Any yell Hermione has is lost to the wind that roars around them as they ascend  higher and higher, until Pansy could drag her fingertips through the clouds if she wanted to. Their descent is faster, the stomach churning terror lasts for only a minute before they hit the ground again, this time in a completely different place.

“Welcome to the Wizarding Sector of Paris, Madame Governor.”

Hermione stumbles away, panting, and drops her bags on the sidewalk. “What the  _ fuck _ was  _ that-- _ ”

“You’ve never been to Wizarding Paris before?”

“Not like that!” Hermione snaps, voice pitching up. “Oh Jesus, I think I’m going to be sick.”

Pansy rolls her eyes and, with a flick of her hand, levitates all the bags and sends them floating behind her as she walks. “Let’s go!

“Fuck you!”

Pansy cackles.

\--

“It’s like a Platform 9 ¾ situation, you see, except instead of slamming into a wall you, like, slam into the atmosphere, I think? I’m not completely sure how it works.”

“You should have warned me.”

“I’ll warn you next time, babe.”

“I hate you.”

“Tu m’aimes.”  _ (You love me) _

“You know I have no idea what that means.”

“That’s the beauty of it. Ah! We’re here!”

Pansy pulls Hermione across the cobblestoned streets, pointing up at an impressive, wisteria- lined building.

“I live on the top two floors,” she explains.

“The top  _ two _ floors? How much does that cost?”

“Please, sweetie, let’s not talk about money when we’re on vacation.”

Pansy doesn’t even have to look at Hermione to know that she’s rolling her eyes.

Flicking her wand, Pansy unlocks the door and walks inside, bags gently landing on the ground as she does so. Hermione gasps slightly as she enters behind her, fingers drifting along Pansy’s sleeve. “You live  _ here _ ?”

“It’s great, isn’t it?”

Pansy can’t help but relax as she steps into the lobby, feeling for the first time in a while like she’s well and truly  _ home _ . 

She whirls around, dragging her fingertips over the towering, glittering columns that house the resident mailboxes. Jesus, those are a spectacle. She checks her box, scoffing when all she sees is junk mail. Vanishing the documents, she turns, ducking right as a floating light comes careening at her. Her hand darts around, grabbing it before it can hit Hermione, who’s still shocked into silence. These annoying fuckers, while beautifully adorned with flowers, have a tendency to smack into one’s head, and Pansy won’t be tolerating that on her grand return. She waves to the doorman and casts her gaze up to the humongous, sparkling chandelier.

Pansy inhales, exhales. She’s so fucking glad she’s home.

“Come on,” she murmurs, nudging Hermione towards the polished, marble stairs.

“Not the elevator?”

“They call it the ‘perfect elevator’. I don’t trust it.”

Hermione gives her a disbelieving look. “Are you serious?”

“Um, yes.”

Hermione shakes her head and moves on, levitating the bags and trudging up the stairs. “I swear to Merlin, I learn something new about you every day.”

“That’s how you keep a relationship interesting. Duh.”

\--

After a lot of arguing as they went up the stairs, they finally reached the top two floors. Pansy had ushered Hermione into her flat, where she had appropriately gaped and  _ aah _ ed at the tall ceilings and gilded floors.

_ I thought you’d be a minimalist,  _ Hermione had muttered, looking around at the sculptures and plants that crowded the room.

_ How dare you. I’m a proud hoarder. _

Pansy had led Hermione around the first floor, pointing out various famous paintings and telling her the names of her plants, much to Hermione’s amusement.

_ Merlin’s balls,  _ Hermione had sworn when Pansy had shown her the guest bedroom. The reaction was warranted, after all, she had let Blaise and Draco decorate the room back when she first bought the place, and those fuckers have always had wildly expensive taste. The king-sized bed awash in pillows, the ensuite bathroom kept perpetually clean by a series of spells, and the wardrobe had been hand-carved by some famous Italian guy. The walls hand-painted (depicting a field of flowers), the ceiling adorned by an enchantment not unlike the one in Hogwarts’ Great Hall, showing the weather outside. It’s all perfectly and wonderfully dreamy, which is why Pansy’s so delighted to see Hermione notice every single little detail.

They drop their stuff and go out for dinner under the darkening sky, ending up at a small cafe where Pansy has to order for Hermione. They talk about nothing and everything, and sneak a bottle of  wine back to Pansy’s place when they’re done.

It’s probably ten-ish when they collapse in Pansy’s bedroom in t-shirts and sweatpants, after Pansy has successfully convinced Hermione to watch a movie before they are forced to retire to their separate bedrooms and floors.

It is then when Pansy notices that, although all Hermione’s had is a glass and a half of wine, she’s  _ totally _ fucking hammered.

“Are you drunk, Granger?” She asks, elation rising in her chest.

“Shut up. No.” Hermione cocks her head, a giggle escaping her. “Well, maybe a bit? I don’t know, I haven’t had a drop of alcohol since the campaign started.”

Pansy barely manages to choke down her mouthful of wine. “Are you fucking serious? You started your campaign, like, 14 months ago.”

“When I was running for… whatever I am now-- Governor! When I was running for Governor some fucking photographer got a picture of me drinking a beer or some shit when I was with Draco and Leah. We got the nickname ‘Drunken Trio’. It took us five fucking months and one hell of a PR campaign to ditch it.” Hermione shakes her head. “Figured I shouldn’t risk it this time around.”

“Well, you’re much stronger than I am. In one sense, I guess. In another sense, you’re actually quite a lightweight--”

“Shut the fuck up!” Hermione yelps, downing the rest of her wine. Turning her attention to the TV, she asks, “What are we watching?”

“We’re not watching anything! Do you seriously think I can focus on something now that I know I’ve somehow gotten you to drink for the first time in 14 months?”

“Well, when in Rome--”

“We’re in France.”

Hermione frowns, squinting. “When in France, then-- ooh! Let’s do a drinking game! I haven’t done one of those since law school!”

Pansy can’t help her laugh as Hermione straightens, bravely shouting, “ _ Accio wine _ !”

There’s a large crash from downstairs, but an otherwise intact wine bottle lands in Hermione’s hand.

She smirks, as if to say  _ I fucking told you so _ , and then slouches against the bed next to Pansy, offering her the bottle. “What should the game be about?”

“I have an idea.” Pansy summons the remote and flicks on the TV, turning on one of those trivia game shows, and points. “Every time one of us gets the answer wrong, we drink.”

“Are you  _ trying _ to lose?”

“I need to catch up, Granger. Jeez.”

“This is such an awful idea,” Hermione mutters, rubbing her eyes. “We have the gala tomorrow morning.”

“That’s why Hangover potions were invented. Duh.” 

“Well, I suppose you’re right.” Hermione grins and turns back to the TV.

“What famous man is commonly referred to as ‘the father of the computer’?” The host asks, a cheeky grin on his face.

“Fuck if I know,” Pansy mutters, the same time Hermione shouts out, “Charles fucking Babbage!” She turns to Pansy. “Though, if we’re being honest with ourselves, it’s Alan Turing, but people didn’t like him because he was gay.”

“Jesus.”

“Wrong! It’s  _ Charles Babbage _ !” The host proclaims.

“Drink, bitch.”

“I don’t know if I like you drunk. You’re very profane.”

“ _ You’re _ very profane-- oh! Next question!”

“Which car has been given the title, ‘the first muscle car’?” The TV yells.

“I don’t know shit about cars,” Hermione mutters, already taking a drink from the bottle.

“Oh! I do! Er, what is it… um, the fucking… the fucking Pontiac GTO!” Pansy shrieks right as a contestant stammers out, “The Pontiac GTO?”

“ _ Correct _ !” The host booms.

“That’s right!” Pansy yells, turning to Hermione. “Drink, bitch!”

Hermione laughs so hard she falls over.

\--

It’s 2am. 

And Pansy knows they’re being stupid, because they have a wholeass event to host tomorrow, a nd they have to start getting ready at 7, but it’s 2am and they’re both drunk and the TV was turned off a long time ago and they’re lying on the floor next to each other. And it’s really nice.

“Speak French to me, Pansy,” Hermione murmurs, voice thick.

“Oh, really, you want me to speak to you in French?” Pansy says with a smile. She turns her head, hiding the heat rushing to her cheeks.

Hermione hiccups, which makes her laugh, which makes her hiccup again.

Pansy’s drunk. Hermione’s drunk.

They should go to bed, leave each other alone.

They shouldn’t be together like this.

But then Hermione’s nodding, poking Pansy’s leg,  _ talk to me in French, why the fuck not,  _ she’s laughing. Hiccuping again.

“Me comprenez-vous?” ( _Do you understand me?)_ Pansy turns on her side, watching Hermione’s face, not seeing even the slightest flicker of recognition. “Es-tu sûr que tu ne peux pas me comprendre?” ( _Are you sure you can’t understand me?)_

Hermione laughs, eyes wide like she’s a small child, hanging onto every word Pansy says. “I have no idea what the fuck you’re saying,” she whispers, looking elated because of it.

And she’s beautiful, and she can’t understand what Pansy’s saying, so Pansy smiles.

“Tu es la plus belle chose que j’ai jamais vue,” she murmurs, words slurring together ( _ You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen _ ). “Chaque jour, je me dis, ‘elle ne pourrait pas devenir plus belle,’ et chaque jour, tu me prouve que j’ai tort.” ( _ Every day, I say to myself, ‘she couldn’t get more beautiful,’ and every day you prove me wrong _ .) 

Hermione tips her head back, eyes closing.

Pansy’s fingers grip the wine bottle a little tighter. “N'est-ce pas stupide que je te parle comme ça?” ( _ Isn’t it stupid I’m talking to you like this? _ ). “Cela ne fonctionnera jamais entre nous, après tout.” ( _ It will never work between us, after all _ ). “Mais je pense que je t’aime de toute façon," Pansy rasps ( _ But I think I love you anyway _ ).

She lets the wine bottle go, the last few drops spilling out and staining her carpet. She can’t bring herself to care.

“Wow. That’s beautiful.” Hermione murmurs. 

“You don’t want to know what it means?” Pansy manages, voice strained, heart pounding.

“No,” Hermione says simply. “I think… I don’t know, I may just be drunk--”

“You’re definitely drunk.”

She grins, batting Pansy’s hand. “I may just be drunk, but I think the… the, er, the  _ appeal _ of it is that I don’t know what it means. For all I know, you could be talking about the weather or-- or  expounding on poetry, you know?”

_ Or confessing my love for you.  _

Pansy forces a smile.

She summons another bottle of wine. 

\--

Light wakes Pansy.

Beautiful, twisting beams of light.

She groans as her head starts to pound, turning her face away from the ceiling, the silent alarm that she set last night so they wouldn’t miss the gala. While normally Pansy would be appreciating the light, the peaceful wake-up, today she’s pissed as fuck because the sun is waking her up and forcing her to deal with the repercussions from last night, when the clouds have always been perfectly happy to let her ignore her problems. 

She opens her eyes, blinking blearily, seeing that she and Hermione are passed out on the floor, twisted together, empty bottles of wine fanning out from around them.

Pansy hates how gorgeous Hermione looks, even sleeping and hungover. Hates how it makes her feel.

Pansy lifts a hand and gently cradles Hermione’s head, rubbing small circles into the base of her neck with her thumb, a nice little trick she picked up from an ex girlfriend.

Not that she and Hermione are girlfriends.

“Hermione?” She whispers.

No response.

Pansy starts swearing.

(Truth be told, she usually enjoys these moments, these flashes of domesticity that she secretly craves, these feelings of warmth and security that she so desperately wants.)

(Normally, she’d lay on this fucking floor all day, but she might be late for the gala, Hermione might be late for the gala, and she has to pee  _ so _ fucking bad.)

So instead of sighing at how Hermione’s body fits perfectly against hers, she whispers again, more urgently this time, “Hermione  _ fucking _ Granger.”

Hermione starts to stir, nuzzling deeper into Pansy, muttering something about closing the curtains.

“Hermione, I will start yelling. And we’re hungover. It won’t be pretty,” Pansy says, ignoring the warmth that fills her when Hermione sighs into her neck. “ _ Hermione _ .”

Hermione finally pulls away, eyes opening.

“What d’you want?” She rasps. 

“It’s time to get ready.”

Hermione groans, curling into herself. “ _ Why _ did we get so fucking  _ drunk _ last night?”

“I’ll go get some Hangover potions,” Pansy mutters, standing up shakily.

It’s a quick, painful walk to her bathroom. Repeatedly, she has to stop to clutch her stomach, only continuing on because of the promise of relief.

She fumbles for the potions, they look  _ so _ similar to the underwater breathing potions, and she doesn’t even fucking know why she has those. She grabs two, downing the first in one, thick, nausea- inducing gulp.

Cringing, she hunches over the sink, letting the nausea pass. After another minute, she sighs, feeling leagues better. 

She walks back to her bedroom whistling the trivia show’s theme song. It was going to be a good day, after all. Her charities would get some publicity, she’s back in Paris, and most importantly,  she’s back in Paris with Hermione.

Hermione who has wrapped herself in blankets, hair a complete mess, still sprawled out on the ground, an indignant pout on her face. 

It’s almost ridiculously attractive.

Pansy wants to kiss her, she realizes with a shock.

She wants to march over there, lean down, run her hands through her hair, pulls Hermione to her and.

Jesus, does she want to kiss her.

And it’s not like there would be any consequences to kissing her. Kissing her for real, that is. Hermione likes her. The public already thinks they’re in a relationship. She obviously has Draco’s approval. They’re in Paris, for Merlin’s sake. Perfect setting just to lean over and do it. Not much would change.

Unless they broke up, that is.

Then, well, it would be an absolute nightmare. It would be even worse than that first month where Pansy didn’t like Hermione and Hermione didn’t like Pansy but neither knew how to go about it.

“What?” Hermione groans. “Do you have the potion or not?”

Maybe Pansy should wait until after the election. It was only 2 or so months away, after all. She could hold on until then, until any hypothetical breakup would be  _ much _ less complicated, not as  messy.

“Here,” she says, tossing the vial to her prone form. “We need to leave in two and a half hours. I have makeup and hair stylists coming in twenty.”

Hermione just groans again.

\--

They show up in coordinated outfits, Hermione in a pink suit and Pansy in a pink striped romper, which is not at all appropriate for the weather. 

They serve waffles and mimosas to the guests, all the while chatting about politics and high society and outfits and even small amounts of gossip, which Pansy pretends she shouldn’t be doing even though no one gives a shit, really.

Pansy twists and pours and smiles and laughs. Hermione tries her best to keep up.

Money pours in. 

Delicious, delectable money.

When they hit their goal of 200,000 Galleons raised for free therapy, Pansy gets up on a small platform and pretends to cry while making a victory speech, which elicits an extra 10,000 Galleons donated.

Hermione smiles and watches her go.

It’s late afternoon by the time everyone leaves the banquet hall, into their limos and brooms and one dick even shows up in a flying carriage.

Western Europe’s most elite, all gone in a moment.

Pansy exhales.

They go straight from the gala to the Eiffel Tower, and then the Louvre, the Notre-Dame Cathedral, the Musée d’Orsay, the Arc de Triomphe, and anywhere else Hermione wants to go, Apparating drunkenly and happily, falling into each other's arms and staying there longer than they should.

They board their late-night plane, sit next to each other, Hermione falls asleep against Pansy and Pansy tries not to take it for granted.

When they arrive back in London, Pansy sighs heavily, already missing Paris, and Hermione takes her hand, looking up at her in a way that makes Pansy want to cry, and promises they’ll be back.

Pansy believes her.

When they reach Hermione’s flat, the two of them linger in the living room before separating, something passing between them that even I can't decipher.

Pansy says  _ goodnight, Hermione _ and Hermione says  _ goodnight, Pansy _ and then Pansy shuts herself into her room.

She wakes up with a note pasted to her forehead that reads,  _ enjoy your Sunday off.  _

Sighing happily, Pansy stays in bed for another three hours, relishing it, basking in the meager sunlight streaming through the window.

She lazily makes herself tea and drinks it while gazing out the windows, watching people go by. People watching is her favorite hobby, after all.

She reads, she watches TV, she plays games on her phone, she calls Blaise and Ginny to see how Vita is doing. She even offers to babysit Eloise, something she considers only because of her bright  mood.

The day comes and goes in a wash of silk robes and long showers and watching the sunset with a mug of hot chocolate in her hand.

She misses Paris.

Worryingly, she misses Hermione more.

\--

She went to bed around midnight, slightly concerned that Hermione hadn’t called or texted all day. When she woke up, it had become alarmingly clear to her that Hermione hadn’t come home at all last night.

And it shouldn’t be a big deal. This happened all the time. All the fucking time.

Pansy gets a sick feeling in her stomach anyway.

She rushes to the offices, emerging from the Floo at 7:55, stomach sinking when she witnesses the absolute chaos that the office has been thrust into. Phones, eternally ringing, and staffers,  eternally fucking yelling.

Something was very,  _ very _ wrong.

“Draco?” She calls, yell lost to the noise.

She pushes through the halls, ducking as papers fly at her, and knocks hurriedly on Hermione’s office door. “Fucking let me in!”

There’s no response.

“I know you’re in there, assholes! Let me in!”

The door opens a crack, revealing Khoutan.

Pansy’s stomach sinks when she sees her red-rimmed eyes and just barely trembling hands. Something was  _ so _ fucking wrong.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re in crisis mode, Parkinson.”

“I think I can handle it. Let me the fuck in.”

“Just take another day off.”

Weirdly, she looks embarrassed to have Pansy here, like she’s ashamed of her presence. 

Pansy’s heart skips a beat. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she asks, “Did I do something? Did I fuck something up?”

Khoutan looks like she’s about to start weeping. “You haven’t watched the news today, or yesterday, have you?”

“I haven’t-- why? Did I do something?”

“No-- no, you did nothing wrong, just,  _ God _ , just come in.”

She yanks Pansy through the door, slamming it shut behind her.

The curtains are drawn and no candles have been lit, leaving Hermione’s office dim. Really, the only thing keeping it from full darkness is the meager bit of natural light coming through a gap in the  curtains.

Her pulse leaps as she sees Hermione, Niall, Astoria, and Draco all gathered around, all looking slightly nauseous.

No one looks at her. 

Leah sinks into a chair next to Hermione.

“What’s going on?”

“Don’t you watch the news?” Draco snaps. Everyone looks at him, admonishing, and he apologizes a moment later, turning away.

Niall looks at her, just a quick glance, and it’s full of chilling regret that makes her palms start to sweat. 

He looks away.

“What’s going on?” She presses. “I swear to Merlin, if no one says anything--”   


“We’ve gotten extremely negative reactions to your trip to Paris,” Khoutan says quickly.

“What kind of reactions?”

They all exchange a look.

“Someone  _ tell _ me--”

Niall flicks his wand, sending three different newspapers at her. Pansy catches them, swearing under her breath when she sees  _ GALLIVANTING AROUND PARIS  _ and  _ WOMAN OF THE PEOPLE, OR OF THE RICH?  _ and, fucking Merlin, the worst one,  _ PERRY SPEAKS OUT AGAINST GOV GRANGER’S NAUSEATING AND TONE-DEAF DISPLAY OF WEALTH. _

“Numbers are dipping, there’s a protest at the Governor’s building, and…” Khoutan winces. “There’s talk of… Jesus, um, there’s talk of a criminal investigation.”

“Wh-- are you fucking serious?” Pansy snaps, throwing the newspapers back at Niall. “She did nothing criminal! I made sure of it-- I had that stupid fucking list in my hand of things she can and  can’t do as a politician--”

“I know that!” Khoutan shouts back. “This is Perry’s fault, okay? He’s all buddy-buddy with the Aurors and MLE. He probably pressured them to investigate Hermione.”

“Well  _ that’s _ criminal. Why isn’t  _ he _ being investigated for that shit?”

“They aren’t going to charge her with anything.” Draco murmurs, rubbing his temple. “They just want to cause a stir, fuel some rumors, hurt her numbers.”

Niall nods. “All of the news sites are basically saying,  _ yeah, she technically didn’t do anything wrong, but she was stupid for doing it anyway.”  _ He groans. “We’re being destroyed.”

“So what does this mean for the future? I have two more events lined up this month,” Pansy asks.

No one answers, scarily reminiscent of her first day here. Except it’s  _ not _ her first day here, she  _ knows _ these people now, she  _ deserves _ answers. She turns and faces Hermione, who’s gotten up from  her chair and is now leaning against the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“What does this mean?” She asks, voice firm.

After a moment, Hermione lifts her gaze to hers, face contorted in pain. “It means--”

“Hermione,” Draco says in a low voice, nostrils flared.

“I can tell her, Draco, okay?” She snaps, jaw visibly clenching. She inhales, exhales, and the intensity of her eyes on Pansy’s very suddenly isn’t comforting anymore. “Pansy, the negative reaction to just this one event doesn’t bode well for the campaign. If we continue doing this, it will hurt us. Badly. So…” 

She trails off, letting the silence speak for her.

And Pansy gets it. Suddenly, hitting her like a fucking bus, she understands. They can’t do the charity events anymore, because it affects their numbers too much. They’re going to break the  contract, leave her in the fucking dust,  _ abandon _ her businesses, just because it doesn’t fit with their plan anymore. That’s why none of them could look her in the eye, that’s why they all look they’re going to cry-- it’s because they’re all fucking sell-outs, sell-outs to the fucking  _ public opinion _ \--

“Say it,” she mutters. “I want you to fucking say it.”

Hermione heaves a deep, pained sigh, but that’s not good enough, that sigh isn’t fucking  _ good enough _ , because Pansy wants her to say it, she  _ needs _ Hermione to say that it’s over, that they won’t help Pansy anymore because they simply don’t want to.

“We can’t do the charity events anymore.”

It’s like the entire room inhales, waiting for her response. Waiting for her to kick and scream and yell about how it’s unfair. They’re waiting for her explosive, unreasonable reaction, waiting for  Hermione, so calm and wise, to fucking calm her down, waiting for Draco to get involved, for it to spiral from there.

“I want everyone out,” she says, voice deadly quiet. “Everyone except Hermione.”

No one moves, waiting for Hermione’s affirmation. And if that doesn’t piss Pansy off enough, Hermione doesn’t give it right away. Instead, she appears to consider it, like it’s her fucking decision to  make.

“I either say what I need to say to you in front of everyone in this fucking office or I don’t,” Pansy snaps, and only then does Hermione hiss for everyone to leave.

Niall, Astoria, Khoutan, and Draco hurry out, all looking nauseated, but that’s really none of Pansy’s concern. 

“Pansy, this is how politics goes--” Hermione starts, hands up defensively.

“Don’t fucking talk to me about ‘how politics goes’, okay? I get it.”

“We stayed here _all night_ trying to come up with another solution, okay! There is _nothing_ _else--_ don’t you understand that?”

“I swear to fucking Merlin--

“What is so wrong, Pansy? Jesus! This is how life goes sometimes!” Hermione retorts, voice shrill.

“Those fucking charity events are the  _ only _ reason I came here, Hermione! They’re the only reason I uprooted my entire life to move to this fucking dump for seven months, the only reason I stayed in your dusty fucking guest bedroom, and the only fucking reason I tolerated all the articles calling me a  _ whore _ and a  _ trophy wife _ who has done nothing with her life!”

“I didn’t know people were saying that--”

“That’s not the point! The point is that at every fucking step of the way of this campaign I have  _ helped _ . I have contributed, I have bolstered your numbers, and charmed voters. And now, this one little thing, you can’t do?”

“It isn’t ‘one little thing’--”

“But it is, Hermione.” Pansy’s voice, disgustingly, cracks. “You see how it is, though, right? Out of everything I’ve done for you over these past few months, it is just one little thing?”

“This is about the health of the campaign, Pansy. You  _ have _ to understand that. You’ve been here for so long-- I mean, you said it yourself! Me winning means better things for everyone. It takes  _ sacrifice _ .”

Pansy clenches her jaw so hard she hears something click. 

“The health of the campaign at the expense of my livelihood. Right?” Hermione winces. “No, don’t fucking wince at me. You know it’s true.” 

“This is how politics goes--”

“Don’t give me that shit--”

“This is how politics goes,” Hermione repeats, voice rising. “Things change. Plans become obsolete. In order to win, you have to be ready-- be _ accepting _ of it.”

“I know all of that!” Pansy scoffs, face starting to heat. “Do you think I  _ don’t _ know that? But this…. I can’t sacrifice my businesses, okay? I  _ won’t _ .”

“Would you leave?” Hermione says, voice wavering. “If I told you that we wouldn’t be doing any more charity events? Would you go back to Paris?”

Pansy lets her face fall into blankness, fists clenched so hard her nails are digging into her palms. She thinks of  _ but I think I love you anyway  _ and Hermione’s laugh and how Hermione rolls her eyes but smile anyway and the pansies on her fucking dress at that fucking ball and how those are all reasons to stay but they aren’t good enough anymore, they don’t seem real anymore, especially with the unflinching, cold Hermione standing in front of her.

“I have no other reason to stay,” she answers, biting her tongue so she doesn’t immediately take it all back when Hermione’s face crumples.

“You-- you have  _ no _ other reason to stay. Not for Blaise or Ginny, Draco, or-- or even me?”

Pansy doesn’t respond, letting the silence speak for itself.

Hermione’s face contorts, like she’s trying not to cry. “ _ Oh-- _ okay. Oh.”

It’s an effort to stay still, to not let the way Hermione’s voice broke bring her to her knees, begging for forgiveness, begging to just forget it all.

And then Hermione, abruptly, is very cold again. “Let me remind you that if you make any allegations about our relationship we are fully within our rights to sue you,” she says almost robotically, flicking her wand, all the papers in her office falling into organized piles.

“I’m not the one who broke the contract, Granger,” Pansy snaps, emotion rising in her throat. “That was  _ you _ .”

“And I’m always going to be sorry about that, Pansy,” Hermione replies, nostrils flared.

“Sorry isn’t good enough.”

Pansy pushes past Hermione, hand grasping the cool doorknob. She hesitates for just a moment, a fatal moment, because in that moment a cold hand is wrapping around her arm, sliding down her  arm and trying to get her to stay.

“Pansy--”

“Tell me I mean more to you than politics,” she whispers, a final, disgusting stab at the happy ending she wants. “Tell me I mean more to you than this dirty fucking game.”

Hermione pauses, a long, lengthy pause. “You know I can’t do that.”

Pansy lets out a hollow, breathy laugh.

She flings open the door, striding into the main offices, where all conversation flickers out as she marches away, the beginnings of tears streaming down her face, like some kind of fantastic fucking spectacle for them to watch.

She’s just made it to the door when she hears her name. When she hears her name being said like it means something, like it  _ is _ something.

“ _ Pansy _ .”

She twists around, jaw clenching when she sees Hermione, standing in the doorway of her office.

“Fuck you,  _ Governor _ ,” she spits.

And then she’s gone.

\--

She runs down the staircase, the same unrelenting dust surrounding her, and just reaches the bottom when she hears someone chasing after her.

She knows it’s Draco before he even calls her name.

She doesn’t bother waiting for him, she doesn’t even want to  _ look _ at him, let alone hear his pathetic case, so she leaves the building, pushing into the early morning sun.

He’s always been faster than her, though. 

He catches her, grabbing her arm and jerking her to a stop in the middle of the street, and she can’t even find the energy to pull away, tears are blurring her vision and clogging her throat and tracking down her cheeks and she doesn’t know how to pull away.

“What the  _ fuck _ was that, Draco?” She snaps.

He lets go of her,  _ recoils _ away from her, face twisted in anguish. “I’m going to fix it, Pansy--”

“You said you would always be on my side. Do you remember that? I guess you kept your promise for, what, a week and a half?”

“I’m going to  _ fix _ it! Okay? I  _ can _ fix this.” His voice is shrill and desperate and so fucking pleading, his hand is in hers and he’s begging her to stay, he’s begging himself to fix everything.

“I’m going back to Paris, Draco.”

“Pansy--”   


“I can’t do this anymore, okay? I know I’m a political prop, I’m only here because I’m good with press--”

“ _ Pansy-- _ ”

“I was okay with that, I  _ thought _ I was  _ okay _ with that, but I’m not-- I’m fucking  _ not _ .” She forces herself to inhale, sways on her feet. Her hand twists in Draco’s shirt, anchoring him to her. “It was all supposed to be fake, Draco. Fake and easy and thoughtless.”

“You have to stay. I need you to stay. Fuck all of this, okay?  _ Please _ , just stay for me.”

It takes all of her strength to let go. “I’m going back to Paris.”

“Pansy--”

“I love you and I’m going back to Paris.”   


She Apparates away.

\--

She lands in the living room of Hermione’s flat.

She calls Blaise as she packs, as she empties out her room, the room that she decorated, repainted, the room that she had spent every single night in for the last four and a half months.

“Pansy?” He answers, and she can hear Vita crying in the background.

“I’m sorry if this is a bad time--”

“What’s wrong?” He interjects, and just the mere concern in his voice is enough to send her into hysterical tears. He starts swearing, hissing through the receiver, “P-Pansy--  _ Pansy _ . Can you come  over? I can’t leave Ginny alone with the kids--  _ Pansy _ . Get yourself together.”

She does as instructed, taking a few horrific, panting breaths before managing, “I’m on my way.”

She drops her things, leaves her half packed room, and Apparates away.

When she lands on Blaise’s doorstep, he’s already there, taking her into his arms and leading her inside, whispering something she can’t hear. 

Eloise, sitting on the couch drawing, yelps in delight when she sees Pansy, the delight immediately turning into fear when she sees the tears and her worried looking father urge her into the kitchen.

“I need something to drink, Blaise,” Pansy rasps.

“It’s 8:15 in the morning--”

“I don’t care.” She fumbles through his cupboards, exhaling through her tears when she sees a bottle of whiskey. She grabs it.

“What happened? D-- did you and Hermione have a fight?”

“You could say that.” She summons a glass, roughly wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

“Pansy, Merlin’s eyebrows--”

“Merlin’s eyebrows?”

“I can’t say Merlin’s, uh, you know what’s, in front of the kids.”

She forces a laugh, though it’s more like a sob, and gulps down some of the burning liquid. 

It doesn’t make her feel better.

“Tell me what happened,” Blaise insists, gripping Pansy’s elbow, pushing the whiskey away.

“What happened-- you wanna know what happened? I’m a political prop to her, and that’s all I am, okay?” She grips his shirt, but it’s too fucking similar to what she did with Draco, and she’s letting and staggering away a moment later. “She doesn’t actually  _ care _ about me, Blaise. That’s what happened.”

He shakes his head, hands settling on her shoulders. “I’m sure Hermione cares about you, Pansy. You’ve been together for, what, twelve years now?” 

And it takes her all of about two seconds to decide to tell him, to look around quickly and then, voice cracking, say the words that she had been dying to tell him for five months.

“But we haven’t, okay? It’s all been a  _ lie _ , okay--”

“What?”

And very suddenly, she’s crying again.

“She polled better in a relationship, and Draco called me, and what was I supposed to do? Turn down free publicity? And-- and I was-- was  _ lonely _ , and I wanted something different--”

“You’ve been faking it this entire time?” Blaise’s face is heartbreaking, he looks betrayed and shocked and absolutely  _ disgusted _ with her--

“Yes, yes we have, okay? B-but--” She pours more whiskey with shaking hands. “I’m such a fucking idiot, because I somehow managed to convince myself it was  _ real _ . That she actually cared about me, but she doesn’t, because she’s a fucking  _ politician-- _ ”

“Pansy--”

“I’m so sorry, Blaise,” she whispers. A sob rolls through her, so powerful she sinks to her knees. “I hated  _ lying _ to you, I couldn’t take it--”

He kneels next to her, pulling her into a hug. “We’ll talk about the ethical issues later, okay?”

“Do you hate me? I totally get it if you do.”

“Let’s not talk about that right now,” he mutters.

“That means yes.”

He laughs, squeezing her tighter. “It kinda does.”

Pansy inhales, exhales. “I’m going back to Paris. I can’t stay here.”

“We most definitely will discuss that at a later date. For now, okay, I’ll take off work, okay? And we can sit with the kids and ignore Draco’s calls and just-- just  _ be _ , okay?”

“You’re a good friend.”

“I’m a  _ great _ fucking friend--”

“Dad?”

Blaise winces, turning. Pansy turns with him, seeing Eloise lingering in the doorway. 

“Everyone’s okay, El,” he says. “Aunt Pansy’s okay. I’m okay. You’re okay.”

She nods.

A moment later, she hesitantly makes her way over to the two of them, sliding down to the floor, resting her head on Pansy’s back.

“Dad said the F-word,” she mutters.

And Pansy laughs.

\--

She spends all day with the Weasley-Zabini’s, much to the delight of Eloise, and eventually ends up crashing on their couch, too unnerved to try and go back to Hermione’s flat.

The next morning, she wakes up to her phone buzzing.

Assuming it’s a call, she moves to ignore it, but stills when she sees the Daily Prophet logo.

_ BREAKING NEWS!  _ Reads the banner.  _ PARKINSON AND GRANGER RELATIONSHIP CONFIRMED TO BE FAKE. CLICK TO READ MORE. _

_\--_


	5. Titanic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What? What are you talking about?”
> 
> Draco sighs, shaking his head. “I’m saying that if you want to win this campaign, you have to be in a relationship.”
> 
> “Well, I’m not in a relationship,” Hermione snaps. “This entire discussion is wasting time, okay? We just have to find another angle. Maybe focusing on my political record--”
> 
> “I have someone. Someone who’s willing to help you out.”
> 
> Hermione pauses. Even Ginny’s gaze snaps up from her phone. 
> 
> “Say that again?”
> 
> “Pansy Parkinson. From school. She’s been living in Paris for the past couple years, doing charity work and dabbling in local politics. She’s willing to pose as your very serious girlfriend until the end of the campaign.” Draco waves his hand around. “For something in return, of course.”
> 
> “No-- absolutely not!” Hermione says sharply. “We can’t do that!”
> 
> Draco cocks his head. “Can’t we, though?”  
> \---  
> Hermione’s on track to become the youngest Minister of Magic in history. There’s just one issue-- the polls hate her. Well, the polls hate her gayness, specifically. When a solution is presented that could fix everything, who’s she to decline?

“I’m the Titanic,” Hermione whispers.

No one bothers to respond.

\--

Pansy’s room wasn’t completely packed up when she went home last night. Hermione was hopeful, just a glimmer of hope,  _ maybe Pansy’s changed her mind _ , but that hope quickly disappeared when the news broke.

“It must’ve been Pansy,” Leah mutters. “Revenge.”

“Pansy would  _ never _ ,” Draco snaps. “How dare you even fucking  _ say _ that--”

“I’m the Titanic,” Hermione whispers again.

No one bothers to respond.

\--

Half the office quit in the two hours following the news breaking.

Niall, after some subtle recon work, found out that someone anonymously tipped off the Daily Prophet. Not wanting to be tricked into running a fake story, reporters started sniffing around, and it took them merely twelve hours to find Melissa, who gladly spilled.

She’s quoted in the Daily Prophet,

_ My ex significant other, Governor Hermione Granger, approached me last May, requesting that I keep quiet about our relationship that occured in fall of last year. When I asked why _

Hermione stopped reading there.

“I’m the Titanic.”

“Stop fucking saying that,” Draco snaps.

\--

The campaign’s on lockdown.

She’s thirty points behind Perry.

She’s had to build such incredibly thick wards around the offices that she can’t even see outside, can’t hear anything. According to overheard whispers between Draco and Leah, there are hundreds of reporters outside, all hoping to get a slice of the scandal. 

She hasn’t turned her phone off yet, though. 

Back when she ran for Governor, she had some fail-safes installed outside of her parents’ cottage, Ron’s flat, plus Leah’s, Harry and Draco’s, Blaise and Ginny’s, anyone who would be in danger of being swarmed by reporters if something happened, really.

The same wards that shield her now from the outside world are the same ones that protect her family and friends.

She tries to take some comfort in that, at least.

\--

Blaise comes to the office, alone, after battling through a sea of reporters.

He exchanges a few heated words with Draco before requesting a private audience with Hermione.

She doesn’t give it to him.

Because she heard his words, she saw him, flickering in and out of sight, as he was assaulted by hungry press, as Eloise was pulled and clawed at, as people screamed  _ did you know your friend was a whore?  _ and  _ do you and the Governor have a sexual relationship? _

She can’t face it yet.

The consequences of her actions.

\--

She  _ has _ to consider that Pansy did this. Even though she doesn’t think she did, Leah keeps pushing her to consider that Pansy was, in fact, the one that tipped off the Daily Prophet, gave them  Melissa’s name, and brought this shitstorm upon them.

In a fit of anger, betrayal, she went out, abandoned her packing halfway through in order to, what did Hermione say all those weeks ago?  _ Burn it all down and flee back to Paris. _

Draco and Leah have never been angrier at each other, though.

_ How can you stand there and say that?  _

_ How can you stand there and deny it? _

Hermione’s thinking of the pain in Pansy’s eyes as she left yesterday.

She tried to call her, once. Around 2pm.

Inhaling, exhaling, pressing the buttons and hoping. 

No answer, mailbox full. 

She writes a letter, and it says wonderful, useless things like  _ I’m sorry  _ and _ please forgive me  _ and _ I can’t do this without you. _

She doesn’t send it, though.

\--

It’s dark out. Hermione doesn’t know when that happened.

At some point throughout the day, everyone decided to go, leaving behind piles of work and incessant ringing phones. 

Draco and Leah have stayed, though. They haven’t said anything for a while, though. They’re just gathered around her desk, each pitiful in their own unique way.

Hermione’s so fucking close to drinking again. Even though it wouldn’t solve anything, it would just remind her of Pansy speaking French to her and maybe kind of thinking she heard something about love in there but not knowing for sure. 

“Blaise had some stuff to say about Pansy,” Draco whispers at one point, knuckles white as he clenches his fists.

Hermione sighs, leaning back in her chair. “What?” She asks quietly, just because she knows that if Draco doesn’t share his guilt and pain now, shove it out of him and lay it bare for others to see, it’ll never come out.

A lesson she learned from Pansy, ironically.

“She spent all day at his place yesterday. Distraught and not making any sense…” He gulps. “She told him.”

Hermione half expects Leah to leap up and down, overjoyed that she was correct, but instead she just folds into herself, bringing her feet up and hugging her knees. 

She looks like a small child.

Draco’s face contorts, the dim light casting shadows across his features, making him look otherworldly. “She told him and said she couldn’t handle lying to him anymore. That she was going back to Paris and she didn’t want to be used as a prop anymore.” He exhales shakily, hands trembling. “A  _ prop _ .”

Hermione feels the word like a punch to the gut.

“He took off work, spent all day watching cartoons with her and Eloise. She shut off, apparently, and he wasn’t able to get a word out of her after she told him.” Draco shakes his head. “Ginny doesn’t even know yet. Just thinks Pansy and Hermione have had a snit.”

“It couldn’t have been Pansy, then,” Leah murmurs. “If she spent all day at his flat, what time could’ve she snuck away and tipped off the Prophet?”

“So you’re saying Blaise is the culprit.”

“Yes.”

“Blaise didn’t tell anyone.”   


“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“Blaise is a new parent, sleep deprived. He could have mentioned it to Molly or Arthur,” Leah mutters, a growing edge in her voice.

They go back and forth, going over a version of the same argument they’ve had twenty times today. They both look exhausted, sound sick, seem as if they’re just going through the motions.

“Blaise would  _ never-- _ ”

“Oh, spare me.”

“Blaise isn’t an idiot, okay?” Draco replies. “He wouldn’t have told anyone.”

“Can we please move past this?” Hermione manages.

Draco straightens suddenly. “No-- no, we can’t. What if someone was listening in? Like, I don’t even know, like someone was listening when Pansy told Blaise, you know?”

“What are you talking about?”

Draco’s face drains of color. “What if someone bugged us? Like the Perry campaign or something, looking for dirt?”

“That’s all kinds of illegal, Draco,” Leah says. “Perry isn’t that stupid.”

“He totally is.”

“Who even cares who leaked it?” Hermione murmurs. Draco and Leah look at her, seeming equally affronted. “It could have been an intern who overheard something, or bloody Eloise, even. It’s fruitless trying to find out, especially because it’s leaked and it’s done.”

“Are we ending the campaign?” Leah asks in a whisper.

Hermione feels sick at the very notion. Because, the truth is, if she ends the campaign, admits defeat, she might as well be shooting her political career in the head. No, not just her political career, but her law career, too. No law practice will hire her, no one will take her seriously. They’re already pushing for her to resign as a Governor as well as retire the campaign. But if she continues fighting, making a fool of herself while she’s mocked, while Pansy goes back to Paris, while her flat empties out and gets covered with a new layer of dust, what happens then?

She loses. That’s what happens then. 

She remembers a few months ago, when the question Draco and Leah would pester her with was  _ who’s going to be your chief of staff?  _ And, later, with a barely contained smirk,  _ how’s Pansy? _ Now…

Hermione stands. “I’m going home.”

“You have a Governor’s meeting tomorrow at 9,” Draco mutters, not even pushing for an answer.

She sags, not even trying to conceal the exhausted expression on her face. “Fucking wonderful. See you then.”

She Apparates away, leaving the hordes of reporters behind and landing in her living room unsteadily, the wards unflinching hold finally relaxing. Her hands grip the counter, a weak attempt to stay upright, fingers brushing ceramic. 

Ceramic.

She whirls around, breath hitching when she sees a freshly used tea cup abandoned on the counter. 

And Pansy’s door, yellow painted and looking quite worn in the dark, slightly ajar. A lamp glowing, soft music playing from the inside.

Hermione crosses the room before she can think, knocking once, twice, three times, even though the third time is barely a tap.

There’s no response.

Hermione nudges the door open, revealing Pansy laying on her bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling.

“You’re here,” she says, sounding horrifically desperate even to her own ears.

Pansy’s eyes cut towards Hermione. “I haven’t forgiven you.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“I don’t care what you expect.” Pansy sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. “I haven’t been able to… I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Hermione’s pulse leaps, hope surging through her, but then Pansy continues.

“Based on the messages Draco has left me, it’s not looking good for your campaign.” She meets Hermione’s gaze again. “I didn’t leak it, you know. Neither did Blaise. Or Eloise, and I interrogated  her pretty thoroughly, actually.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Of course I believe you.”

Pansy exhales slowly, sitting up. She moves over slightly, leaving a space on the bed next to her. The left side, because Pansy prefers the right side of the bed. 

Hermione doesn’t know how she knows that.

“Are you going to sit?” She asks after a long moment goes by, an impatient edge to her voice.

“I thought you were angry with me.”

Pansy scowls, a shadow passing over her face. “Oh, I’m still fucking apoplectic. Everyone at that office will be receiving a  _ very _ strong-worded letter in the upcoming days. But, as mad as I may be...” She trails off.

Pansy lifts her gaze, meeting Hermione’s eyes. “As mad as I may be, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Hermione doesn’t bother concealing how good that makes her feel.

She settles on the left side of the bed.

Pansy lays back down. And Hermione follows.

“Was Leah flinging accusations at me like her life depended on it?”

“Draco defended you every time. But, er, yes.”

Pansy rolls her eyes, almost like she expected this. Which she might have, Hermione realizes. Leah and Pansy certainly weren’t friends, but they spent so much time around each other these last few months one could expect they’d get to know each other, at the very least.

An assumption proven correct when Pansy, with a heavy sigh, says, “She blames herself, but doesn’t know how to deal with it.”

Hermione tilts her head, running her eyes over Pansy’s sharp profile, illuminated by the light.

“I want you to stay,” she whispers, the truth cracking out of her chest.

“I don’t care what you want.” Pansy’s jaw visibly clenches. “This isn’t about you anymore.”

Hermione’s stomach sinks. “What happened?”

“Some asshole decided to publically demand that his donation to my charities be returned to him. Others are following his lead, so I’m-- well, I’m hemorrhaging money as we speak.”

“That’s awful, Pansy.”   


“I don’t care what--”

“I know. You don’t care what I think, or don’t care for whatever platitudes I have for you. I understand. But can I say something?”

Pansy nods, tense.

“I never should have treated you like I did, Pansy. Like you were some kind of… of, I don’t even know--”

“Prop?” Pansy drawls.

Hermione winces. “Yeah. And-- and, whatever you do, whether you just stay here and never leave your bedroom again or go back to Paris, I want you to know that I’m so sorry, I’m  _ so _ sorry, and that your presence here is the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

It’s silent. 

Then, abruptly, startlingly, Pansy heaves out a heavy sigh, turning on her side to face Hermione fully. “Merlin, I hate you.”

“W- _ what _ ?”

“I think I just forgave you. I was planning on lording this over you for months. Instead, what do I get? Barely 36 hours?”

“So you planned on staying for months?” Hermione asks, smile growing on her face.

Pansy rolls her eyes. “You always have been annoyingly astute, haven’t you?”

“You love me,” Hermione rasps.

Pansy’s eyes soften, just the slightest bit.

“What happens next?” She asks.

Hermione shrugs, eyes still stuck on Pansy’s. “It’s all over, Pans.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Pansy swears under her breath, gaze darting to the ceiling. “That sucks.”

Hermione smiles, despite everything. “Yeah. It really does.”

They sit in thick, thoughtful silence for a moment, until Pansy’s eyes return to hers.

“Hey, Hermione?”

“What?”

“Why’d you hide that newspaper from me?”

Hermione’s heart skips a beat. She coughs, turning away from Pansy, certain that her face will betray her. “Er, what newspaper? I don’t remember hiding a newspaper from you. Like,  _ newspapers _ , who even reads those anymore when everything’s online--”

“You’re a terrible actor.” Pansy tugs on her arm. “Look at me, please?”

Hermione grimaces but acquiesces. She turns back around, faced with the beautiful view that is Pansy, smiling, hair smushed into the mattress.

Pansy laces their fingers together, eyebrows raising. “It is because you like me?”

“You know I like you, Pansy--”

“No, like…” Her smile fades. “Is it because you  _ like _ me?”

“Do you have the emotional maturity of a thirteen year old?” Hermione murmurs, smiling when Pansy scowls and flicks her hand.

“Stop avoiding the question.”

Hermione sighs, tilting her head towards Pansy’s. “Yes. I hid it from you because I like you. Like that. I figured you’d find out as soon as you saw it.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“Who showed it to you? I implicated everyone in the conspiracy to cover it up.”

“Draco revealed the conspiracy. After Vita was born.”

After their mistaken, relief-fueled kiss. “Fucker.”

Pansy laughs, shaking her head. “Well, where would we be if he hadn’t?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere different? Maybe not in the middle of a huge political scandal?”

“Somewhere different. I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Pansy, cupping Hermione’s hand in her own, unfurls her fingers, tracing the lines in her palm, eyes fixed on her hand as she does so.

It has to be the most intimate thing they’ve ever done together.

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I like you too?” Pansy asks in a quiet voice, eyelashes casting shadows on her face.

“I’m scared to ask,” Hermione answers, the honesty making her heart leap into overdrive.

“You have no reason to be,” Pansy murmurs as she lifts Hermione’s hand and guides it to her cheek, holding it there. Her skin is warm, smooth underneath Hermione’s touch. 

Hermione can’t help her smile. “Do you like me too?”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “I’ve only told you about a thousand times.”

“You have?”

“Well, in French.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“It’s the language of love--”

“A language I don’t understand--”

“Merlin, nevermind. For your information, yes I do.”

Hermione sighs, her thumb drifting over Pansy’s cheek. “So what do we do now?”

“Well, it’s incredibly inconvenient we only just figured this out. Could have saved us a lot of headache and scandal if we had.”

“Why fixate on the past?”

Pansy nods. “You’re right. We should definitely live in the present. For instance, presently, I’m going to kiss you.”

“Are you now?”

“Yeah, I am,” Pansy says, laughing slightly, leaning closer. Hermione follows the movement, until they’re just a breath apart, and her hand is still on Pansy’s cheek and one of Pansy’s hands is delicately placed on her stomach, steadying and sure, and it just seems so inevitable that they’ll drift just slightly closer, laughter gone now, and that their lips will touch, light and brushing, and it’ll be a quiet, calm beginning that both of them will never forget.

Hermione finds it miraculous.

\--

The peace lasts for about two minutes.

Hermione has a hand up Pansy’s shirt and another in her hair when someone starts banging on the door, screaming for Hermione.

Hermione freezes, groaning.

“Oh Jesus motherfuck,” Pansy spits. “Is that Draco?”

“Fucking asshole--” Hermione mutters, pushing off of Pansy and striding towards the door.

“ _ Hermione fucking Granger _ !”

She flings open the door, revealing a red-faced Draco. “What could you  _ possibly _ need right now?” She snaps.

“I need to  _ talk _ to  _ you _ .”

“About  _ what _ ? I’m busy--”

“You aren’t too busy to hear this.” He pushes past her and marches into her flat, not even taking notice of Pansy, lingering in her bedroom doorway. “I know you told me to just drop it, but I couldn’t  stop thinking about the possibility of Perry bugging someone, maybe us, or Blaise’s and Ginny’s--”

“What did you do?”

Draco opens his palm, revealing two pea-sized devices, shrouded in some sort of concealing charm that makes them just barely visible in the light.

“The one on the left I found pinned under the couch in my flat, the other was hidden behind Ginny and Blaise’s coat rack.”

Hermione swears softly, fingers drifting over the metal.  _ Can they still hear us? _ She mouths.

Draco shakes his head. “I disabled mine as soon as I found it, but they might have heard me explaining to Blaise and Ginny why I was chanting Latin in their child’s bedroom.”

“Have you messaged Leah?”

“She’s searching her place right now. She’s going to swing by Ron’s later, too.”

“Is there one in here?” Pansy asks, breaking her observant silence.

Draco whirls around, eyes widening. “You’re... here.”

“That’s what Hermione said.”

“Are-- are you staying?”

“Apparently.”

Draco nods. “Okay.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Pansy murmurs. Straightening, she raises her eyebrows. “I repeat my question- is there one in here?”

“I don’t know,” Draco admits. “I had to do a complicated Summoning spell to--”

“Jesus, do it then!” Pansy interjects. “Hermione and I have business to attend to!”

Draco scowls. “I’m not going to ask.”

He turns, murmuring in Latin, sweeping his wand around him in great movements. It’s almost mesmerizing, the way magic seems to ebb off of him, and Hermione finds herself gravitating towards him, pulled in, before Pansy yanks her back.

He exhales, dropping his arms. He glances around his feet, frowning. “Nothing.”

“Wait, but I used that spell to clean Hermione’s flat back in-- back in _May_ ,” Pansy mutters. “A much simpler version of it, yes, but still--”  
“Could these have been in our homes since fucking _May_?” Draco shrieks, color blooming all across his neck and face.

“It would explain a lot. I mean, hasn’t the Perry campaign always seemed, like, one step ahead? The hacked emails, the organized hecklers…” Hermione raises her eyebrows. “They could have been doing this since the beginning of everything, really.”

Draco lets out an unintelligible string of swears, grabbing his phone and dialing a number. He waits for a moment, tapping his foot, and then, in a yelp, “L- _ Leah _ , no, because-- can you let me fucking talk!”

Hermione summons a chair, collapsing into it with a sigh.

Her staff had been bugged. Her  _ friends _ had been bugged. She had brought this upon them, she had chosen to involve them in all of this, and now… 

She groans.

Pansy sidles up next to her chair, brushing her braids off of her shoulders in one delicate movement. “It’s not your fault.”

“I can’t help but feel like it is.”

“It isn’t.” Pansy places a hand at the base of Hermione’s neck, comforting and soothing. “It isn’t,” she repeats.

“Thank you, but--”

“Leah and Ron are both bugged. I’ve called Niall and Astoria, they haven’t got back to me yet, and Leah has contacted most of the aides and staffers, but it looks like Perry only targeted high-level staffers, family, and friends.”

“Oh fucking shit,” Hermione spits, standing abruptly.

“What?”

“I’ve got to call my fucking parents.”

\--

After an absolutely torturous call with her parents, Hermione sends out an emergency Patronus to everyone on her staff, detailing what they know, what to look for, and with explicit instructions  _ not _ to talk to the press. 

After that, she Apparates to the office, Draco and Pansy in tow, to meet with an already gathered Leah, Niall, and Astoria.

The most surprising turn of events however, even more surprising that the whole being spied on for months situation, is that, the second Pansy appears in the office, Leah slams into her with the force of an elephant, wrapping her in a hug.

Pansy, eyes wide, hesitantly returns the hug and exchanges a few whispered words with her before moving on, nodding at Astoria and embracing a teary-eyed Niall.

“I’m really glad you’re not leaving,” he says.

“I haven’t forgiven you yet,” she responds.

Draco checks to see if the building is bugged and comes up with only a small device behind a filing cabinet. After that, everyone is ushered into Hermione’s office for a strategy session.

It is no surprise to anyone that it very quickly descends into a yelling match.

“You thought  _ I _ fucking leaked it? Do you have even  _ one _ brain cell?”

“It was an emotional day! And technically, you  _ did _ leak it, because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut to Blaise--”

“I couldn’t keep my mouth shut because of you  _ traitors-- _ ”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck me? Fuck  _ you _ !”

Astoria dutifully takes notes on the entire exchange.

After a bit, everyone winds down, and Niall stands. “I’ve contacted the Prophet, threatened to sue them for libel and defamation, because all the evidence they had was the word of a wronged ex-girlfriend, really, and they’ve agreed to stop running the piece until they can ‘find concrete evidence’. Now, Perry can’t use the audio of Pansy telling Mr. Zabini about the relationship without explaining where it came from, so they’ll probably be sitting on that for a bit. Which means we have time to conduct an investigation ourselves and incriminate Perry.”

“Best case scenario, he’s arrested, is forced to drop out of the race, and the position is ours,” Draco adds. 

“I’ve gone through every single campaign email, all the rally footage, interview transcripts, and we’ve been pretty good about keeping the relationship separate from fundraising. Anyone who chose  to donate because of the alleged relationship was not coerced into it and was acting entirely of their free will. And all personal appearances between the two of you were not funded with campaign money. So we can’t be convicted or even arrested for lying in order to accrue funds,” Astoria informs them. “As we all know, Perry has considerable sway over the MLE, being a former Auror himself, so if you’re approached by an Auror with the claim that you’ve been swindling your supporters, tell them what I just told you. They’ll be forced to drop it or they could be sued.”

“We need to get that on a card or something,” Leah murmurs.

“But we don’t even know if it’s Perry who did it,” Hermione chimes in. “He has some fucked up followers.”

“And we’ll need evidence that he did do it in order to arrest him,” Astoria adds.

“Well how do we get that? The MLE won’t touch it, or if they do, they’ll fuck it up monumentally.”

“And we need to affirm that he did it quickly, before they find a plausible explanation for that tape and any deniability we have goes out the window.”

“I have someone.”   


Five pairs of eyes snap to Pansy. 

“Who?” Draco asks.

Pansy winces. “He’s back in Paris. A friend. Kind of. He helped me out when I was trying to get my charities off the ground. But… he’s illegal. And expensive.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Draco says quickly, and, before anyone can object, adds, “I have the appropriate funds. Plus, Malfoys are good at not leaving paper trails.”

“When can we meet with him?” Leah asks.

Pansy sighs, standing and summoning her phone from her bag in one swift movement. “I’ll be right back.”

She leaves the office, closing the door behind her.

It’s silent for a moment, one blessed moment. And then Draco, in an amused voice, murmurs, “So, Hermione, what exactly did I interrupt earlier when I came to your flat? After all, you and Pansy  seemed quite busy--”

“ _ Shut up _ !” She hisses, but it’s too late.

“ _ What _ ?” Leah demands, Niall and Astoria gasping.

“Are you two actually together now?”

“Did you fuck?”

“I  _ knew _ it--”

“Are you happy with yourself?” She snaps at Draco, scowling when he starts laughing.

“I’m actually really pleased with myself, if you must know,” he replies, yelping when she smacks his arm.

“I hate all of you--”

“You totally fucked.”

“I’m your boss!”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you fucked--”

Everyone abruptly falls silent as the door opens and Pansy steps back into the room. “We need to be in Paris in twenty minutes,” she says, completely matter-of-factly. “Anyone know of any last minute Portkeys we could hop on?”

“Are you serious?” Leah asks.

“Deadly.”

Everyone leaps up, fumbling for their stuff, swearing madly.

Hermione, wand in hand as she firmly locks down the office, snaps, “Astoria, stay in London and keep an eye on Perry. Track his every move and report it back to me. Niall, keep a handle on the media fallout, okay? Make sure the Prophet keeps their traps shut, and-- oh! Order every social media app to shut down rumours of a fake relationship, okay? We can still recover from this.”

“There’s a Portkey from Cambridge to Paris leaving in seven minutes,” Leah informs her. “Pansy, do you have this guy’s address?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” she answers vaguely. “He… finds us.”

“We need to  _ go _ !” Draco shrieks.

“You sound like Mays,” Pansy mutters.

“Don’t ever fucking make that comparison again.”

Hermione strides into the main office. “Floo to Ron’s, he’s the closest to Cambridge, then Apparate to the Portkey.” 

“You forgot something, Granger!” Pansy calls, pointing to something on her desk.

“ _ Fuck _ , er, go on without me,” Hermione urges Draco and Leah. “I’ll catch up.”

“You fucking better,” Leah mutters.

Hermione turns, darting back to her office. “Wh--?”

She’s cut off when Pansy grabs her collar and pulls her into a hungry kiss, letting out a muffled moan. “You forgot we were interrupted earlier,” she says breathlessly, winding a hand into Hermione’s hair.

Hermione staggers back, pulling Pansy along with her, until they hit a wall, and skates her hands down Pansy’s back, clutching her waist. She presses against Pansy, letting out a choked gasp.

Pansy runs her tongue across Hermione’s bottom lip, nipping slightly, then steers her attention to Hermione’s neck, where she starts sucking and biting in earnest.

“We need to go--  _ oh-- _ ”

“I have a shortcut,” Pansy simply says. “Don’t worry about time.”

She slips her hands up Hermione’s shirt, unhooking her bra almost effortlessly--

“I don’t know what the  _ fuck _ you’re doing, but you need to get to Ron’s  _ now _ !” Comes a shrill reprimand.

Hermione and Pansy leap apart, both swearing when they see Leah’s Patronus, a gigantic Bay Mare, staring down at them.

“We should go,” Hermione murmurs, fixing her bra.

Pansy scowls but complies, grabbing her bag and allowing Hermione to lead her out of the office.

Just as they reach the Floo, Hermione whirls around, pressing Pansy against the wall. She kisses her fiercely, quickly, and when they part, whispers, “We’ll finish this later, okay?”

“Oh, we  _ most certainly _ will--”

“Come on!”

\--

All of the hazy, intoxicating feelings from her and Pansy’s minute to themselves are promptly gone when they land in Paris, Draco and Leah by their side.

“I do the talking, Draco proves he has the money, we leave. Okay?” Pansy directs. “No talking out of turn or trying to convince him of something. He’ll bail if he thinks something’s up.”

“This guy’s our only hope?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Sounds like a peach,” Draco mutters.

“I am a peach, mon chérie,” Comes a smooth voice from behind them. Hermione swears, stumbling away from the young man who has simply just appeared behind her.

To Pansy’s credit, she doesn’t even flinch, simply turns and inclines her head to the man lurking behind them. “Josue.” 

Hermione finds herself being pushed to the side by the aforementioned Josue, dark skin and darker eyes seemingly glittering, as he embraces Pansy, brushes his lips over her cheek. “Tu m’as  manqué, Pansy.” 

“I missed you too,” she says quietly, patting his cheek.

“I haven’t heard from you in so long,” he says, thick French accent emerging. “But I see you were in Paris just the other day. And you don’t stop by? I was wounded.”

He feigns pain, clutching his chest.

Pansy shakes her head, lips curving up slightly. “It wasn’t a fun visit, if that makes you feel better.”

He nods once, twice, three times. “I was interested to receive your call… are you serious about what you want me to do? It can get… messy.”

“I’m very serious. And do it with haste, please?”

His eyes narrow. “I cannot guarantee that.”

“What?” Leah snaps. “You  _ can’t _ ? How much are we even paying you?”

“ _ Leah _ ,” Hermione snaps, right as Draco hisses, “Are you  _ serious _ ?”

Josue’s eyes flash. He starts gesticulating wildly, ranting in rapid, heated French. Pansy responds in a murmur, clutching his arm. He peers past her, sweeping his eyes over Leah.

He replies in French. It seems to be good though, because Pansy smiles, letting out a relieved breath.

“Perfect,” Pansy says. “Now, for payment--”

“I’ll contact you when it’s done. No payment required.”

Pansy blinks, mouth falling open. “You can’t be serious.”

“Visit me the next time you’re in Paris. That’s all I ask.”

Pansy nods. “I’m forever in your debt.”

Josue winks. “That, too.”

He disappears with a  _ bang _ .

“Well, that’s not promising,” Pansy murmurs, rubbing her head. “If it ever gets out that we made a deal with a black market PI, and we’re in debt to him, no less--”

“Let’s not talk about that,” Draco interrupts. “Let’s just… go home.”

“What time is it?”

“Around 1 in the morning.”

“Do you think the reporters have stopped surrounding my house?” Leah asks irritably, bundling her jacket tighter around her.

“They’ll never leave.”

“Fucking A.”

\--

The Governor’s meeting ended up being canceled, just because the sheer number of reporters surrounding the Governor’s chambers impeded anyone from getting in.

They’ve rescheduled two days out, and although Hermione doesn’t think time will make this any better, she’s relieved for the postponement, just so she doesn’t have to face her colleagues just yet. 

She knows what will happen. The whispers, the avoiding, the sly comments in front of her. The elected board of Governors, while supposed to be the most sophisticated political minds in all of Europe, can sure act like a bunch of fucking teenagers sometimes.

Two days later, she gets dressed in her most professional pair of robes, takes some Calming Draught, and is just about to Floo away when she gets a notice-- postponed another two days. Her eyes twitches, but she doesn’t say anything to anyone about it. Two days after that, she takes some Calming Draught and dons her most professional pair of robes, preparing for the ridicule she’s  _ certain _ she will face-- postponed. 

It continues like this for two weeks.

It continues like this for two weeks, and still no word from Josue.

Pansy becomes increasingly panicked as the days go on, though Hermione can’t imagine why. It’s not like the sudden lack of communication with the black market PI they hired to investigate her political opponent is a bad thing, after all. 

The real issue, in Hermione’s opinion, is that the longer Josue takes to figure this out, the longer the campaign office is on shutdown.

The press, absolutely bloodthirsty at this point, fill up pages upon pages wondering where she is, where has her family and friends gone, how long will it be until she finally makes a statement? Meanwhile, her numbers keep dropping. Lower and lower. 

At this point, even walking into the Governor’s chambers naked whilst screaming _ IT’S ALL TRUE! _ would be better than this radio silence.

But her entire team agrees-- they need to know  _ what _ they’re saying to the press. Whether they’re finally admitting it or tossing Perry to the wolves.

Hermione goes to sleep each night and prays that she’ll wake up to a message from Josue.

But she’s never been a religious woman.

\--

“They’ve all been involved in scandals before,” Pansy tells her. “They aren’t going to be  _ that _ rude--”

“We both know they are.”

Pansy shrugs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Whatever you say, Governor.”

Hermione rolls her eyes but places a quick kiss on her cheek, taking another sip of her water.

The message had come this morning.  _ No more damn postponing! _ So, with no word from Josue, she must go.

“Are you two making out?” Comes Draco’s crackling voice through the fire.

“Well, we aren’t now,” Pansy retorts.

“Don’t answer  _ any _ questions about the scandal. Even from those who you think you can trust--”

“I know, Draco.”

“And just keep your head down. This is the first time you’ll be emerging in public since--”

“I know, Draco.”

“Keep calm--”

“I  _ know _ , Draco.”

“Your tone makes me think otherwise!”

“Leave her alone,” Leah adds, voice uneven as she struggles for room in the fire. “Hermione’s got this--”

“Hermione’s going to be late,” Pansy chimes in. “And I think that will just make the whole thing worse, wouldn’t you say?” 

Hermione rolls her eyes, tuning out Draco and Leah’s last minute advice.

“Will you come pick me up when I’m done?” She asks in a quiet voice. “I could really use someone there.”

Pansy makes a face. “If I  _ have _ to--”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Pansy cackles, bumping her forehead against Hermione’s. “You know I will. Though, that’ll definitely make some waves, yeah? Violate Niall’s ‘no headline-worthy behavior’ policy?”

“I’ll deal with him.”

“How romantic.”

Hermione throws some powder on the fire, hanging up on Draco and Leah, and flips off Pansy as she steps into the fire. “Governor’s Chambers,” she says, and the last thing she sees before she’s  completely enveloped in green flame is Pansy’s tongue sticking out at her.

\--

The hall leading to the Governor’s chambers is, blessedly, empty. She walks slowly, heart hammering, shoes making small, insignificant shuffling sounds.

She’ll stride into the chambers, chin up, unashamed. Well, definitely ashamed, but, like…. Unashamed. 

She shakes her head slightly, getting rid of the thought. She can do this. She walked into the Governor’s chambers a day after one of her aides posted his wet dick all over the Internet, and the  meeting that day was about the healthiness of school meals. If she could handle three hours worth of sausage jokes, she could handle this.

And Pansy was going to pick her up. So she just had to… what did Draco say? Keep cool, be polite, all of that shit. 

Her hands grasp the imposing doorknob, and, with a deep breath, she swings the door open, stepping into the Governor’s chambers with her mouth set in a hard line.

“ _ SURPRISE! _ ”

She rears back, hand going to her wand as thirty Governors swarm her, smacking her on the back and shouting sentiments like  _ I didn’t know if it was ever going to happen  _ and  _ welcome, Granger! _ Governor Lemmon, with a wide grin, flicks his wand towards the wall and, with a mighty fanfare, a banner reading  _ BABY’S FIRST SCANDAL _ unfurls.

“Oh my fucking God,” she mutters.

“Welcome to your very first scandal support group meeting!” Lemmon crows, grabbing her elbow and pulling her away from the crowd. “I have to be honest, Governor, I didn’t know if you’d ever join us!” He lets out a loud guffaw.

A glass of champagne is pressed into her hand by someone she doesn’t see.

“Drink up!” He shouts. “This is an all-day celebration of your induction into the Hall of Shame!”

“Er--”

“Any Governor who faces a major scandal gets a party like this, thrown by past scandal victims,” Lemmon explains as he steers her past tables of decadent food. “We’ve had to evict some members, recently, though. Any more than three scandals-- or if you’ve done blackface, that’s an issue-- and you’re out. So it’s perfect that you’re joining now!”

Hermione blinks. “I’m a little confused--”

“Think of it as a club,” Governor Rooney adds as she passes by. “A morally corrupt club, you know?”

Hermione blinks, mouth hanging open slightly.

“Phones in the bowl!” Comes a shout. 

“Ah, yes. Put your phone in the phone-bowl,” Lemmon instructs. “More human connection, you know?”

“Are you serious?”

“May I?” Lemmon gestures towards her pockets.

“Er, no?”

He raises his hands, nodding. “I get it. Just don’t be on it all afternoon!”

Hermione blinks. “Uh, I have a question.” 

Lemmon nods. “Shoot.”

“Am I being punked?” Hermione asks in a whisper, casting a cursory glance around her.

Lemmon bursts into raucous laughter. “That’s what I said ten years ago! I had an affair with a prostitute, you see--”

“How long has this… er, club been around?” Hermione interrupts, desperate to not hear the rest of that story.

“Uh… 25 years now?” His eyebrows furrow. “MacGowan! How long have we been doing this?”  
“Mirren started it 28 years ago,” MacGowan answers, sipping his champagne as he lumbers over to them. “At that time, it was… let’s see… mostly blackface scandals. But we cleaned that all up, didn’t we?”

“Drink some champagne, Granger!” Someone calls. 

Hermione, utterly unwilling to do that, forces a smile, Vanishing her glass with a flick of her wrist.

“Let’s say hello to everyone,” Lemmon urges.

Hermione, extremely reluctantly, complies.

In a flurry of movement, she’s directed around the room, greeting and thanking and nervously laughing, talking with people who she hasn’t spoken to since she became a Governor four years ago.

An hour or so later, she stumbles away, leaning up against a wall, finally acquiescing to everyone’s requests and drinking some champagne.

“You know, I ran for Minister when I was your age,” Comes a voice behind her.

She turns, smiling and inclining her head when she sees Governor MacGowan settling next to her.

“I don’t remember that at all,” she admits.

“Well, it was thirty years ago. You were barely born,” MacGowan says with a wry smile.

“What happened with it?”

“Very obviously, I didn’t win. My campaign manager was such a schmuck, you see, and he just made wrong decision after wrong decision.” He raises his eyebrows. “And, well, that’s one thing, but he didn’t recover well from his wrong decisions. Not at all. He’d fire everyone around him, throw out the schedules, but the real kicker, the thing that really brought me down, was that I thought he was doing a great job. I didn’t see it.”

“You-- what? You didn’t?” Hermione thinks of the ridiculously shrewd Governor next to her, who pores over bills and notices every single flaw in wording and grammar, who marks up lines that are confusing, who takes hours to painstakingly explain to his constituents what bill will do what to whom. Who notes every aide and staffer that comes through his office, anyone’s office, really. It seems unthinkable that he would let such… such  _ incompetence _ sink him. Hermione says as much to him a moment later.

He laughs, thumping his chest. “I was so young! It was my fourth year as a Governor, I was just some fresh faced idiot.” Hermione laughs along with him, deciding not to point out that she’s in  _ her _ fourth year as a Governor, and by his logic makes her a fresh faced idiot. 

MacGown turns to her, looking at her in a way that reminds her of her father when he’s trying to impart a lesson. 

“You’re very young, Hermione,” he says softly. “You made a mistake. The people will get over it.”

“In time for the election?”

He shakes his head with a smile. “I’m not sure about that, if I’m being honest.” He shrugs. “I know you’re not used to losing. Or even the concept of  _ maybe _ losing.”

Hermione sighs, trying to get used to that truth, trying to let it settle in her stomach. “I… er, well. I know.”

“Listen, you already have a grade-A team, the policies, basically everything you need… but four more years of serving the public, four more years of experience… it can’t hurt.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right!” He booms, patting her on the shoulder. “Anyway, enjoy your party. It might not seem like it, but we’re all friends here.”

Hermione smiles and decides not to dispute that too.

“Oh, er, Governor MacGowan, what was your scandal?” She asks impulsively.

“Crack a book, Governor,” he says with a wink, walking away a moment later.

Hermione doesn’t have much time to think about that, because pretty soon another glass of champagne is being pressed into her hand and another banner is being unfurled, this time reading  _ YOU REALLY WENT THE EXTRA MILE!  _ And Hermione can’t help but feel… accepted. Maybe for the first time since she’s stepped into these chambers, really. 

So when everyone starts cheering and chanting  _ Toast! Toast! Toast! _ , she stands up on the stage and bows deeply.

“Thank you all,” she starts, smiling slightly when Lemmon lets out a _whoop!_. “I would like to start off by saying this is probably the most morally corrupt thing I’ve ever been a part of, which obviously can’t be said for the rest of you--” She’s cut off by cheers. “--and that fact is probably why it’s taken me four years to be inducted into the-- what do you call it? The Hall of Shame?”  
Laughter and cheers erupt from the crowd, and Hermione smiles.

“Thank you, thank you.”

She laughs, nodding at Governor Kiskey and Chen, who are cheering the loudest, and is just about to step down when the room is suddenly filled with beeping, buzzing, and chiming, all coming from  the phone bowl at the other side of the room.

Hands and wands raise, and devices come flying out the bowl, cementing themselves in their owners’ hands. Hermione gets there first, her phone still in her robe pockets, and lets out a ridiculously loud swear when she sees the Daily Prophet banner.

_ BREAKING NEWS-- CANDIDATE FOR MINISTER OF MAGIC CECIL PERRY HAS FLED THE COUNTRY. _

The room is plunged into stunned silence.

Hermione knows she should be moving, knows she needs to call Leah, call Draco, call her fucking parents, but she can’t move, thumb hovering over the headline. Josue hadn’t let them down, after all, it seemed, he had gotten Perry arrested with enough evidence to convict, he had scared Perry enough for him to flee the fucking country--

She allows herself to not move for just one more moment.

And then she snaps into motion.

She jumps down from the stage, pushing through Governors, Governors who are now patting her on the back and congratulating her, calling her Madame Minister and wishing her luck. She dials the  office.

“Granger for Minister campaign,” comes a choked sounding voice. “How can I help you?”

“Niall,” she orders. “Statement.  _ Now _ .”

The party is immediately over as Governors, following her hurried example, scramble to collect their things and get back to their staffers, all hoping to find an acceptable response to the turn of events before the press descend upon them.

She reads the article as she talks to Niall, as her colleagues rush around her.

_ Two days ago, The Daily Prophet received a statement provided by an anonymous source alleging that Candidate for Minister of Magic Cecil Perry had knowingly and willingly allowed his campaign team to bug members of the Granger for Minister campaign and civilians close to Governor Granger. Now, we here at The Daily Prophet do not peddle in misinformation, so we took these past two days to painstakingly go over this anonymous persona’s provided evidence, as well as interview members of the Granger and Perry campaign alike. _

_ The truth? Perry knowingly engaged in illegal behavior in an effort to get dirt on his opponent. When he was tipped off by one of his old friends at the MLE that he was going to be faced with criminal charges, he took his opportunity and fled, leaving behind his wife and two children, but taking with him his campaign manager and head of fundraising, who are likely guilty a _ _ s well. The other truth? Governor Hermione Granger and Miss Pansy Parkinson aren’t entirely innocent either. More information on page 2A. _

“Wh-- what do we do? How do we react to this?” She manages to say as she strides through the chamber halls.

“Grateful, apologetic. You can’t be pleased that your opponent is going to jail and has fled the country, but you are going to be the next Minister of Magic, so--”

“What if he comes back and isn’t convicted? You know how close he is with the Aurors-- What if they hold a special election or something? What if someone new starts running against me and  everyone likes them better--”

“Hermione. You’re  _ going _ to be the next Minister of Magic.”

In the background, Hermione can hear the office erupting in joyous shouts and screams. Niall starts laughing, or maybe he’s crying, Hermione doesn’t know, and he says again, barely audible, “Congratulations, Madame Minister.”

She stops abruptly, inhaling, exhaling. “This is happening, isn’t it?” She whispers, voice cracking.

“It’s all you.”

A choked sob cracks out of Hermione, echoing through her so deeply she nearly collapses to her knees. “You’re serious?”

“I’m so fucking serious.”

“Oh my fucking  _ god-- _ ”

She drops her phone as another sob rolls through her, as she stumbles against the wall, barely holding herself up.

“When’s the inauguration?”

Hermione whirls around.

Pansy, brushing Floo powder off of her shoulder, arches an eyebrow. “I need to know how long I should stay in London, after all--”

Hermione slams into Pansy, embracing her so tightly she is sure Pansy can barely breathe. She can’t bring herself to care, though.

They’re in the middle of the hallway and it’s all happening, isn’t it? It’s all going to be okay.

Pansy whispers something about ‘Madame Minister’ being kinky and Hermione just laughs and kisses her so hard she’s lightheaded.

Her phone buzzes.

Breathlessly, giddily, she checks it.

_ who’s going to be ur new chief of staff???? -leah _

“Oh my god,” Hermione groans, leaning into Pansy. “They’re already bothering me about chief of staff--”

Her phone buzzes again.

_ I'm sending my resume over to u right now!! -d _

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ch.6 will be a shorter, epilogue type and will be up soon.


	6. Canada

“I need the fucking figures on government spending!”

The office is loud. Hectic, confusing. The large, expansive rooms, connected by wide hallways, are full of people, yells, documents whirling around, spells hitting walls.

It’s obvious what the offices are used for. Nameplates reading  _ Assistant to the Minister _ and  _ Chief of Staff to the Minister of Magic _ and even the aforementioned  _ Minister of Magic _ litter the floors, the walls plastered with newspapers with Hermione’s smiling face splashed across the front. 

Phones are constantly ringing, doors are swinging open and shut, shouts and yells and orders following them.

Joint chiefs of staff, Draco Malfoy and Leah Khoutan, are the only people that have complete access to everything and everyone in the entire office. Well, there is one other person, but most in the office try to ignore her. A tremendously hard task, because she can be especially distracting.

A point proven when, in her typical grand fashion, Pansy Parkinson bursts through the door and strides through the office, yelling about nothing.

She’s caught by the waist by the Minister of Magic, emerging from a hidden door with her head of communication trailing.

“You’re interrupting my work,” The Minister says, accepting a brief kiss from Pansy, twisting to face her.

“I should be your  _ top _ priority, Granger--”

“You most certainly are, but the Prime Minister of Canada is literally waiting outside. You might’ve passed by him in your haste to bother me.”

Pansy smiles sweetly. “I would have noticed, Hermione, believe me. I’m not so dense--”

“Um, the Prime Minister says he was just verbally assaulted by Pansy?” Leah hisses as she walks by, three phones in one hand.

Hermione turns to Pansy, raising her eyebrows. 

Pansy shrugs, tightening her grip on Hermione. “Oops.”

“We're still on for dinner tonight?” Hermione asks, and she’ll deny until the day she dies the tinge of exasperation in her tone.

“Apologizing to the Canadian bloke won’t take too much time?”   


“Oh, it’ll take ages, but you  _ are _ my top priority, after all.” Hermione smiles as Pansy fake swoons, only continuing when she straightens again. “How was your weekend in Paris?”

“Absolutely brilliant. Alaire says hello, by the way. And also that you need to spend more time in Paris.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “I’ll spend more time in Paris when the Parisian governors stop being so bloody impossible to negotiate with--”

“Yes, she  _ is _ ready to see you, Mr. Prime Minister!” Comes a pointed yell from the open door.

“Gotta go.”

“I thought I was your top priority?”

Hermione grins, pulling away. “Love you. Go bother Niall.”   


Pansy’s eyes soften slightly. “Love you too,” she murmurs, but Hermione doesn’t hear her, already greeting the Prime Minister with a slight bow. 

“Talk in my office?”

Hermione directs the aging Prime Minister into a comfortable seat, an unread note from Astoria pinned on her desk. She sweeps her eyes over it, exhaling unsteadily when she sees,  _ Sex Education bill officially on the table-- will be voted on next week. Interview on the details w Daily Prophet @ 5. _ Great, so, she covertly checks her watch… in seven minutes. Wonderful. She hadn’t expected the briefing with Niall to go so long, and now she had an interview to get to in seven minutes and a pouty old man to deal with.

“You put tariffs on my imports,” The Prime Minister starts, mouth twisted in a strained smile. “I would like to know why.”

Hermione busies herself with organizing the files on her desk, responding in a casual tone, “We here across the Atlantic frown on human rights abuses, Minister, and I would like to know why you haven’t put a stop to the Muggle trafficking lines that run directly through your capital city--”

“I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

“I didn’t insult you.”

“What if I put tariffs on  _ your _ imports, Madame Minister?” He barks out a sickly laugh. “Your economy would suffer _ ,  _ that’s for sure _ \-- _ ”

“Madame Minister?” 

Hermione peers past the Canadian prick, raising her eyebrows at Leah, who’s hanging in the doorway.

“Important call for you, ma’am,” she murmurs, gesturing to Hermione’s phone.

Hermione frowns, waving Leah off. “Please. This is more important.”   


“It’s the French Consul, ma’am--”   


“Leah,” she snaps, waving her off. “Go. I’m not going to ask again.”

Leah nods, ducking out, and the Prime Minister, grinning smugly, settles in his seat.

Literally  _ such _ a fucking dick. That trick only works on dicks, after all. The whole ‘oh, this is more important’ shite makes her nauseous, but it works every single time, a fact that Leah loves, seeing as it was her idea--

“I don’t think either of us want a trade war, ma’am,” he continues, noticeably more amiable now.

“I certainly don’t. But, once again, I’m concerned about your capital city.”

“It’s  _ my _ country--”

“We both know you would suffer from a trade war more than I would, Prime Minister,” she snaps, standing. “Now, if you excuse me, I have other business to attend to.”

She marches out the door, waving at an intern to escort him out, and nearly collides with Draco head-on as he reels around the corner frantically. “We need to go to your Daily Prophet interview! This will make or break the future of your bill!”

“Draco, Jesus,” she mutters, pushing him away. “Calm down. It’ll be fine.”

He scowls, tucking his phone in his pocket. “I hate how chill you are now that you’re married.”

“Pansy’s a good influence,” Hermione murmurs, attention drawn to the other side of the room. “We’ll leave in five, okay?”

Draco opens his mouth, most assuredly to object, but Hermione ignores him, striding over to Astoria and Niall, who are seemingly in the middle of a heated discussion.

“What?”   


They both start at her voice, faces flushing. Astoria recovers before Niall and, with a scowl, explains, “An article has come out about the sex education bill. A whole lot of lies, of course, like that you’re going to force children to watch porn--”

“Daily Press News, of course,” Niall interjects.

Astoria shoots him a dark look. “They’ve invited you on to chat about it. But--”

“It’s a radio interview with Nigel Smith.”

Hermione lets out a bark of laughter. “That fuck?”

“I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” Niall insists. “It’s really getting traction, and we need someone to fix the narrative, and I’ve already tried but they don’t want to hear what I have to say. They want to hear  _ you _ .”

“Astoria,” Hermione directs. “Counter argument.”

“It’s an awful idea,” Astoria snaps. “The last time you were on there, all it did was make you look like a fool. Nigel Smith won’t let you even explain anything anyway! It’s a total and complete waste of time.”

Hermione raises her eyebrows. “That’s a pretty good counter argument, Niall. Besides, I’m doing a TV interview with the Daily Prophet about it in, like, a minute. I’m sure it will get brought up.”

“The people we need to support it won’t be looking at the Daily Prophet!” He says sharply, eyebrows creasing.

“Everyone looks at the Daily Prophet, Niall.”

He and Astoria start right back up with their arguing. Hermione turns away, sweeping her eyes over the room tiredly.

It was time to go, she presumed, by the fervent speed at which Draco’s foot was tapping.

“My God! Fine, let’s go!” She shouts.

Draco snaps into motion, pushing her over to the Floo and shoving a sheaf of paper into her hand. “I got the questions beforehand, you see--”

“This bill is my baby, Draco. I’ve been working on it for five years now. No question they could possibly ask could trip me up--”

“Look at question 5,” he interjects, stepping through the Floo a moment later.

Green flames licking over the page, she squints, groaning when she does as Draco instructed.

5)  _ Will homosexual sex education be taught? If yes, is this because of your homosexual tendencies? _

“The Prophet just gets better and better every day,” she mutters to herself, stomach sinking with dread. 

With a sigh, she follows.

As she steps into the Daily Prophet offices, her phone buzzes.

_ The Canadian Prime Minister just stepped on my toes!! Little bit of a prick, might I say! --Your darling wife _

It’s almost embarrassing how much better she feels in just an instant.

_ Is this going to be a thing now?  _ She replies, adding on with a smile,  _ Like when the Indonesian ambassador called you a bitch and, for a month afterwards, that was all you could talk about? _

_ You assume the worst of me. I can control myself. --Wifey poo _

_ For some reason, I doubt that. _

_ Rude!! --pp _

“Hermione!” Draco calls, beckoning her over. “Let’s move!”

She pockets her phone, exhaling slowly.

It’ll be fine.

\--

Hermione collapses onto the bed, grinning when Pansy jumps.

“Evening.”

Pansy shoves at her, scowling. “You’re almost as big of a prick as the Canadian Prime Minister.”   


“How long is this going to go on? Another month?”

Pansy shrugs. “Most likely.”

“I’m  _ so _ looking forward to that.”

“Of course you are. How’d the interview go?”   


“You didn’t watch it?”

“Of course I did. You were wonderful. But...” she taps Hermione’s temple. “There’s a lot going on in that head that the general public is not privy to. Figured the barely contained rage-tremble meant something was up, even if the esteemed Mike Axa didn’t catch it.”

Hermione sighs, curling into Pansy, relaxing when her hands start drifting through her hair. “I hate Daily Prophet interviews.”

“Pricks, aren’t they?”

Hermione nods.

“Almost as big as pricks as the Canadian Prime Minister, you could say--!”

“Oh my  _ god-- _ ”

“I’m never going to fucking let it go! Get used to it!”   


“ _ Why _ ?”   


“He stepped on my toes!  _ Ruined _ my shoes!”

“He’s a respected world leader! You can’t call him a prick every other sentence!”

“Like you weren’t thinking it!”

“ _ Of course _ I was thinking it! Didn’t say it!”

“In what world is me, a private citizen, telling my wife, _my_ _wife_ , that a certain world leader is an undeniable prick?”

“Say that about the Americans. Not the Canadians. People still  _ like _ the Canadians--”

“If they met the fucking Canadians, maybe that wouldn’t like them!”

“Now we’re generalizing Canadians?”   


“They elected that fucking prick!”

“Oh my fucking god--”

“Hermione.  _ Hermione _ . Sit here and tell me, when you  _ vowed _ to always be honest with me, that the Prime Minister wasn’t a prick to you, wasn’t a prick to me, and deserves all the names we call him?”

“I’m not disputing that, I’m disputing your obsessive use of comparison--”   


“Hermione.”

“What?”

“I never wanted to have to say this to you.”

“...what?”

“You’re being a prick--”

“Oh Jesus fucking  _ Christ-- _ ”

“Almost as big of a prick as the Canadian Prime Minister!”

“I  _ hate _ you--”

“You love me!”

Hermione lets out a loud, giggly laugh, the tail end of it muffled by Pansy’s lips on hers.

“I love you,” she murmurs a moment later, head tilted against Pansy’s. “Even though your reference to a man you’ve met only once who happened to be prickish is borderline manic.”

“I love you too,” Pansy responds, voice soft. “Even if you’re making excuses for a ginormous asshole--”

“Oh, he’s an asshole now?”

“Don’t-- you’re confusing me!”   
\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! This fic is near & dear to my heart, and I'm so glad I was able to share it with you.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Two will be up soon! Thank you for reading <3  
> I apologize for the lack of relationship-y stuff (that's why you're here, after all) but it is coming. I promise.


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